WERNER'S 

READINGS  AND  RECITATIONS 

No.  33 


INCLUDING 

"JULIA  AND  ANNIE  THOMAS'S 
FAVORITE    SELECTIONS" 


i\ 


m 


w 


EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 

Copyright,  1892,  by  Annt«  Thomas. 
Copyright,  1905,  by  Edgar  S.  Went* 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hil 


i 


http://archive.org/details/juliaanniethomas33thom 


CONTENTS. 

Pagb 

ibsence  Makes  the  Heart  Grow  Fonder 24c 

tdvice  to  a  Hard  Student 21 

dter  Election. — Annie  Thomas .  . . 42 

Lnnabel  Lee. — Edgar  Allan   Poe 79 

.pparitions. — Robert   Browning 7 

.t  Sunset. — Margaret   E.   Sangster 67 

lattle,  The. — Frederick  Schiller 234 

leautiful,  The. — E.   H.   Burrington 30 

iffe  Still.— Rev.  Dwight  Williams 162 

lilly's  First  and  Last  Drink  of  Lager 19 

!on  Ton  Saloon,  The 8 

;ootblack,   The , ill 

Bose." — Emeline  Sherman   Smith 57 

loy  Orator  of  Zepata  City. — Richard  Harding  Davis 216 

rahma   22 

iiidd  Explains. — :Marion  Short 204 

iiUtercups  and  Daisies 23 

arcassonne. — Gustav   Nadaud 69 

Chemistry  of  Character,  The. — Elizabeth  Dorney 83 

hickens  107 

Child's  Thought  of  God,  A. — Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 41 

lourtin'  the  Widder. — Libbie  C.  Baer 209 

yclopeedy. — Eugene  Field 205 

)arkey  Innocence. — J.  W.  Morgan 221 

)ay  is  Done,  The. — Henry  W.  Longfellow I 

)e  Po'  White  Trash. — Minny  Maud  Hanff 203 

)er  Oak  und  der  Vine. — Charles  Follen  Adams 124 

Hscipline    75 

)olly's  Prayer. — Emma  Burt 139 

)rifting. — T.  B.  Read 141 

)runkard-maker.   The 140 

)uty. — Frederick  Schiller ; .  123 

(HI) 


CONTENTS. 

Pact 

Duty. — Rev.  Alfred  J.  Hough 153 

Eden  Advancing.— Rev.  E.   H.  Stokes,  D.  D 89 

Eleventh  Hour,  The. — Anna  L,  Ruth 36 

Extract  from  "The  Light  of  Asia." — Sir  Edwin  Arnold 191 

"Father,  Take  My  Hand" 98 

Gardener's  Daughter,  The. — Alfred  Tennyson 170 

Gems  from  Walt  Whitman 195 

.  Give  Us  Men 54 

God's  Appointments. — Emma  C.  Dowd 33 

Golden-Rod    '. 163 

Golden-Rod. — C.  A.  Kiefe 26 

Good-Bye   231 

Gradatim. — J.  G.  Holland 49 

"Gran'ther's  Gun." — Charles  Henry  Webb 215 

Guilty  or   Not   Guilty  ? 52 

Hans  and  Fritz. — -Charles  Follen  Adams 85 

Haste  Not — Rest  Not. — Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe 18 

Hazing  of  Valiant. — Jesse  Lynch  Williams 199 

Here  or  There. — Henry  Burton 149 

Herve   Riel. — Robert   Browning 165 

His  Best  Girl 5 

Hope  On. — Adelaide  A.   Procter 77 

Hour  of  Prayer,  The. — Victor  Hugo 78 

If  Only 144 

If  There  Be  Glory. — Maxwell  Grey 154 

Indian's  Revenge,  The. — Felicia  Hemans , 91. 

Jack    71 

John's  Mistake. — Mollie  Brande 50 

Judge  Not 38 

Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 134 

Katie's    Answer 55 

King's  Picture,  The. — Helen  B.   Bostwick 3 

Kissing  the  Rod. — James  Whitcomb  Riley 102 

Leak  in  the  Dike,  The. — Phoebe  Cary 170 

Legend  of  Bregenz,  A. — Adelaide  E.  Procter 115 

(IV) 


CONTENTS. 

Pack 

Liberty  and  Independence 31 

Life. — Annie  Thomas 155 

Life    Llcvcs.— Joaquin    Miller 63 

Lines  Written  on  My  87th  Birthday. — David  Dudley  Field 185 

Little   Newsman,  The 10 

Little  Rocket's  Christmas. — Vanlyke  Brown 44 

Lost  Pearl,  The 66 

Luck  of  Roaring  Camp. — Bret  Harte 222 

Margery. — Mrs.   E.  C.  Foster 86 

Marie's  Little  Lamb 220 

"Merchant  of  Venice"  Told  in  Scotch. — Charles  Reade 210 

Message,  The. — Adelaide  A.   Procter 146 

Mirage. — Edith   Sessions  Tupper 65 

My  Kate. — Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 109 

My  Mission. — Bayard  Taylor „ 177 

Mysterious  Portrait:  A  Story  of  Japan. — George  Japy 241 

Never  Trouble  Trouble. — Fannie  Windsor 147 

Nobility-— Anne  C.   L.   Botta 8 

Not   Knowing 16 

"Number  Twenty-five" 131 

O'Connor's  Child. — Thomas  Campbell 156 

Old  Ben's  Trust 112 

Old  Violinist's   Christmas 232 

One  of  Many. — Alice  Cary 164 

Painter  of  Seville,  The. — Susan  Wilson 125 

Past  and  the  Future,  The. — Luther  R.  Marsh 174 

Peanutti's  Voyage  to  Europe. — Joe  Kerr 236 

Pig  in  the  Fence,  A 56 

Poor  Children,  The. — Victor  Hugo 17 

Poor  Fisher  Folk,  The. — Victor  Hugo 187 

Premonition  of  Immortality. — David  Dudley  Field 186 

Regrets  of  Drunkenness. — William  Shakespeare 151 

Religio  Academic! 105 

Revelation    29 

Second  Trial,  A. — Sarah  Winter  Kellogg 119 

(V) 


CONTENTS. 

Pag* 

Self-Culture    148 

Self-Dependence. — Matthew   Arnold 175 

She  Was  "Somebody's  Mother." — Mary  D.   Brine 104 

Shepherd  Dog  of  the  Pyrenees,  The. — Ellen  Murray 144 

Smiting  the   Rock 136 

Sorceress 239 

Station  Despair. — Joaquin   Miller 103 

Suggestion. — Richard    Realph 82 

Then  Ag'in. — S.  W.  Foss 1 50 

Three  Days  in  the  Life  of  Columbus. — Jean  F.  C.  Delavigne 99 

Three  Words  of  Strength. — Frederick  Schiller 76 

Tired    42 

To  a  Skeleton 28 

To  Walt  Whitman. — Annie  Thomas 194 

Trying  to  Get  Even  Don't  Pay 40 

Two  Mysteries,  The. — Mary  Mapes  Dodge 15 

Two   Towns 169 

Unfulfilled    , 39 

Up-Hill. — Christina   G.   Rossetti 37 

"Vas  Marriage  a  Failure?"— Charles  Follen  Adams..... 64 

Wakin'  the  Young  Uns 227 

Wedding  Fee,  The. — R.  N.  Streeter 60 

What  of  That  ? 35 

When  Me  an'  Ed  Got  Religion. — Fred  W.  Shibley 243 

When  the  Old  Man  Smokes. — Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 229 

Who  is  My  Neighbor? 68 

Wishes.— Anne  C.   L.   Botta 5 

Woman's  Complaint,  A 113 

Women  of  the  War. — Annie  Thomas 80 


(VI) 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 

Page 

Adams,   Charles  Follen 64,  85,  124 

Arnold,  Sir  Edwin 191 

Arnold,    Matthew. 175 

Baer,  Libbie   C 209 

Bostwick,   Helen  B 3 

Botta,   Anne    C.   L 5,  8 

Brande.    Mollie 50 

Brine,  Mary  D 104 

Brown,    Vandyke 44 

Browning,    Elizabeth    Barrett 41,  109 

Browning,    Robert 7,  165 

Burrington,   E.   H 30 

Burt,    Emma 139 

Burton,    Henry 149 

Campbell,    Thomas 156 

Cary,    Alice 164 

Cary,   Phoebe 1 70 

Davis,    Richard   Harding 216 

Delavigne,  Jean   F.    C 99 

Dodge,  Mary  Mapes 15 

Dorney,   Elizabeth 83 

Dowd,  Emma  C 33 

Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence 229 

Field,  David  Dudley 185,  186 

Field,     Eugene 205 

Foss,  S.  W 150 

Foster,  Mrs.  E.  C 86 

Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang  von 18 

Grey.    Maxwell 1 54 

Hanff,   Minny  Maud 203 

Harte,    Bret 222 

Hemans,    Felicia 91 

Holland,  J.   G 49 

Hough,  Alfred  J 153 

Hugo,    Victor 17,    78,  187 

Japy,    George 241 

Kellogg,    Sarah   Winter 119 

Kerr,   Joe 236 

Kiefe,   C.  A 26 

(VII) 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 

Page 

Longfellow.    Henry    W I 

Marsh,    Luther    R 174 

Miller,    Joaquin 63,  103 

Morgan,    J.    W 221 

Murray,    Ellen 144 

Nadaud,     Gustav •.  .       69 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan ' 79 

Procter,   Adelaide   A 77,    115,  146 

Read.    T.    B 141 

Reade,    Charles 210 

Realph,    Richard 82 

Riley,   James   Whitcomb 102 

Rossetti,    Christina    G 37 

Ruth,  Anna  L 36 

Sangster,    Margaret    E 67 

Schiller.   Frederick 76,   123,  234 

Shakespeare,   William „ 151 

Shibley,   Fred   W 243 

Short,    Marion 204 

Smith,   Emeline  Sherman 57 

Stokes,    E.    H 89 

Streeter,    R.    N , 60 

Taylor,     Bayard 177 

Tennyson,    Alfred 179 

Thomas,  Annie 43,  80,   155,  194 

Tupper,  Edith  Sessions , 65 

Webb,  Charles  Henry 215 

Williams,    Dwight 162 

Williams,   Jesse   Lynch 199 

Wilson.    Susan 125 

Windsor,    Fannie 147 


trrny 


WERNERS 
READINGS  AND   RECITATIONS 

No.    33 

INCLUDING  

"Julia   and   Annie  Thomas's   Favorite  Selections" 


THE    DAY    IS    DONE. 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 
x 


JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares  that   infest  the  day 

Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


FA  I  'OKI  TE    SELE C TIONS. 


THE    KING'S    PICTURE. 


HELEN    B.    BOSTWICK. 


There  is  in  every  human  being,  however  ignoble,  some  hint  of  perfection; 
some  one  place  where,  as  we  may  fancy,  the  veil  is  thin  which  hides  the 
Divinity  behind  it.  —  Confucian    Classics. 

THE  King  from  his  council  chamber 
Came  weary  and  sore  of  heart ; 
He  called  for  Iliff  the  painter, 

And  spake  to  him  thus  apart: 
"  I  am  sickened  of  faces  ignoble, 

Hypocrites,  cowards,  and  knaves! 
I  shall  fall  to  their  shrunken  measure, 
Chief  slave  in  a  realm  of  slaves! 

"  Paint  me  a  true  man's  picture, 

Gracious  and  wise  and  good; 
Endowed  with  the  strength  of  heroes 

And  the  beauty  of  womanhood. 
It  shall  hang  in  my  inmost  chamber, 

That  thither,  when  I  retire, 
It  may  fill  my  soul  with  grandeur 

And  warm  it  with  sacred  fire." 

So  the  artist  painted  the  picture, 

And  hung  it  in  palace  hall, 
Never  one  so  beautiful 

Had  adorned  the  stately  wall. 


JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

The  King,  with  head  uncovered, 
Gazed  on  it  with  rapt  delight, 

Till  it  suddenly  wore  strange  meaning, 
And  baffled  his  questioning  sight. 

?or  the  form  was  his  supplest  courtier's, 

Perfect  in  every  limb; 
But  the  bearing  was  that  of  the  henchman 

Who  filled  the  flagons  for  him; 
The  brow  was  a  priest's  who  pondered 

His  parchments  early  and  late; 
The  eye  was  a  wandering  minstrel's 

Who  sang  at  the  palace  gate; 

The  lips — half  sad,  half  mirthful, 

With  a  flitting,  tremulous  grace — 
Were  the  very  lips  of  a  woman 

He  had  seen  in  the  market-place; 
But  the  smile  which  the  face  transfigured, 

As  a  rose  with  its  shimmer  of  dew, 
Was  the  smile  of  the  wife  who  loved  him— 

Queen  Ethelyn,  good  and  true. 

Then,  "Learn,  O  King,"  said  the  artist, 

"This  truth  that  the  picture  tells; 
How  in  every  form  of  the  human 

Some  hint  of  the  highest  dwells; 
How,  scanning  each  living  temple 

For  the  place  where  the  veil  is  thin, 
We  may  gather,  by  beautiful  glimpses. 

The  form  of  the  God  within.'-' 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS. 


WISHES. 


ANNE    C.    L.    BOTTA. 

/"MVE  me  the  bracelets  that  your  warriors  wear!  " 

VJ     The  Roman  traitress  to  the  Sabine  cried. 

"  Give  me  but  them  and  I  will  be  your  guide, 
And  to  your  host  the  city's  gates  unbar." 
Then  to  the  walls  each  eager  warrior  rushed, 

And  on  the  base  Tarpeia  as  he  passed, 

Each  from  his  arm  the  massive  circlet  cast 
Till  her  slight  form  beneath  the  weight  was  crushed. 

Thus  are  our  idle  wishes.      Thus  we  sigh 

For  some  imagined  good  yet  unattained; 

For  wealth,  or  fame,  or  love,  and  which  once  gained, 
May,  like  a  curse,  o'er  all  our  future  lie. 

Thus  in  our  blindness  do  we  ask  of  fate 

The  gifts  that  once  bestowed,  may  crush  us  with  their  weight. 


HIS    BEST    GIRL. 


HE  hurried  up  to  the  office  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  hotel, 
and,  without  waiting  to  register,  inquired  eagerly: 
"  Any  letter  for  me  ?  " 

The  clerk  sorted  over  a  package  with  the  negligent  attention 
that  comes  of  practice,  then  flopped  one — a  very  small  one — on 
the  counter. 

The  travelling  man  took  it  with  a  curious  smile  that  twisted 
his  face  into  a  mask  of  expectancy.  He  smiled  more  as  he 
read  it.     Then,  oblivious  of  other  travellers  who  jostled  him,  he 


6  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

laid  it  tenderly  against  his  lips  and  actually  kissed  it.  A  loud 
guffaw  startled  him. 

"Now  look  here,  old  fellow,"  said  a  loud  voice,"  that  won't 
do,  you  know.  Too  spooney  for  anything.  Confess,  now,  your 
wife  didn't  write  that  letter?" 

"No,  she  didn't,"  said  the  travelling  man,  with  an  amazed 
look,  as  if  he  would  like  to  change  the  subject.  "That  letter 
is  from  my  best  girl." 

The  admission  was  so  unexpected  that  the  trio  of  friends 
who  had  caught  him  said  no  more  until  after  they  had  eaten  a 
good  dinner  and  were  seated  together  in  a  chum's  room. 

Then  they  began  to  badger  him. 

"It's  no  use,  you've  got  to  read  it  to  us,  Dick,"  said  one  of 
them,  "  we  want  to  know  all  about  your  best  girl." 

"  So  you  shall,"  said  Dick  with  great  coolness.  "  I  will  give 
you  the  letter  and  you  can  read  it  yourselves.  There  it  is," 
and  he  laid  it  open  on  the  table. 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  the  one  who  had  been  loudest  in  demand- 
ing it.  "We  like  to  chaff  a  little,  but  I  hope  we  are  gentlemen. 
The  young  lady  would  hardly  care  to  have  her  letter  read  by 
this  crowd,"  and  he  looked  reproachfully  at  his  friend. 

"  But  I  insist  upon  it, "  was  the  answer.  "  There  is  nothing  in 
it  to  be  ashamed  of — except  the  spelling;  that  is  a  little  shaky, 
I'll  admit,  but  she  won't  care  in  the  least.  Read  it,  Hardy, 
and  judge  for  yourself." 

Thus  urged,  Hardy  took  up  the  letter,  shamefacedly  enough, 
and  read  it.  There  were  only  a  few  words.  First  he  laughed, 
then  swallowed  suspiciously,  and,  as  he  finished  it,  threw  it 
on  the  table  again  and  rubbed  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his 
eyes  as  if  troubled  with  dimness  of  vision. 

"  Pshaw,"  he  said,  "  if  I  had  a  love  letter  like  that "  and 

then  was  silent. 

"Fair  play!"  cried  one  of  the  others,  with  an   uneasy  laugh. 

"I'll  read  it  to  you,  boys,"  said  their  friend,    seeing  they 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  7 

made  no  move  to  take   it,  "and  I  think   you'll   agree  with  me 
that  it's  a  model  love  letter." 
And  this  was  what  he  read: 

"  Mi  owen  deer  PaPa.  I  sa  mi  PRairs  every  nite  annd  Wen 
i  kis  yure  Pictshure  i  ASK  god  to  bless  you  gOOd  bi  Pa  Pa 
yure  Best  gurl  DOLLY." 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  company  remained  silent,  while  the 
letter  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  you  would  have  said 
that  every  one  had  hay  fever  by  the  snuffling  that  was  heard. 
Then  Hardy  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Three  cheers  for  Dolly  and  three  cheers  more  for  Dick's 
best  girl!  " 

They  were  given  with  a  will. 


APPARITIONS. 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


SUCH  a  starved  bank  of  moss 
Till,  that  May  morn, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across: 
Violets  were  born! 

Sky — what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud: 

Splendid,  a  star. 

World — how  it  walled  about 
Life  with  disgrace 
Till  God's  own  smile  came  out: 
That  was  thy  face! 


JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

NOBILITY, 


ANNE    C.    L.    BOTTA. 


I  DO  not  ask  if  an  illustrious  name 
Has  shed  upon  thy  birth  its  purple  glow; 
Nor  do  I  ask  what  titles  thou  canst  claim, 
What  ribbon  favors,  such  as  kings  bestow. 

Why  should  I,  when  upon  thy  brow  I  see, 
In  its  expression  of  all  lofty  things, 

The  insignia  of  that  true  nobility 

That  bears  the  impress  of  the  King  of  kings. 


THE    BON    TON    SALOON. 


BY  THE  EDITOR  OF    ALL  THE  WORLD. 


SUNSHINY,  crisp,  broke  that  October  morning, 
Montana  way; 
Down  the  white  roadways  of  Helena  tramping, 

At  break  of  day, 
Gang  after  gang  of  brisk  workmen  came  thronging, 

Gathering  soon 
Where  crawled  long,  snakelike  trenches,  in  front  of 
The  Bon  Ton  saloon. 

Oh,  you  would  never  have  looked  for  a  hero 

Out  of  that  crowd! 
Navvies  from  East  and  from  West  were  assembled, 

Soiled,  labor-bowed, 
Infidels,  lews — and  one  Salvation  soldier, 

Humming  a  tune, 
Digging  away  where  the  trench  ran  in  front  of 

The  Bon  Ton  saloon. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  9 

Waked  the  young  city  to  clangor  and  bustle, 

Effort  and  strife. 
Townsmen  and  ranchmen  were  passing,  repassing, 

Sinning  was  rife. 
Whirled  all  the  wheels  of  life  faster  and  faster,  till 

Just  at  high  noon 
Came  a  great  crash,  and  a  dust  cloud  in  front  of 

The  Bon  Ton  saloon! 

Silence  an  •instant.      Then  oaths  and  quick  orders, 

Clamor  and  din. 
Two  men  the  earth-slide  had  buried  already 

Up  to  the  chin. 
Well  knew  the  hurrying  workmen  unless  their 

Help  reached  them  soon, 
Two  corpses,  ready-graved,  stood  there  in  front  of 

The  Bon  Ton  saloon! 

Clear  rose  a  voice  from  the  mound  that  was  crushing  them, 

"  Never  mind  me! 
I — I  belong  to  the  Salvation  Army, 

Dig  my  mate  free! ' 
Care-free  was  he  of  the  Helena  soldiery. 

Humming  his  tune, 
Under  the  earth  or  above  it,  in  front  of 

The  Bon  Ton  saloon ! 

Half  an  hour  later  he  stood  on  the  sidewalk; 

Scathless  was  he. 
God  can  be  trusted  to  always  look  after 

"  Never  mind  me!  " 
All  over  Helena,  sinners,  remember  it — 

How,  high  at  noon, 
Testified  Tracy,  entombed  there  in  front  of 

The  Bon  Ton  saloon ! 


to  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 


THE    LITTLE    NEWSMAN. 


IT  was  no  wonder  the  men  stopped  their  work  and  stared.  It 
was  no  wonder  that  one  or  two  of  them  laughed  for  a  mo- 
ment. It  looked  so  strange  and  somehow  out  of  place.  None 
of  us  had  ever  seen  or  heard  anything  like  it  before. 

It  was  in  the  yard  of  the  largest  marble  works  in  the  city  of 
Chicago.  Ever  so  many  fine  monuments,  delicately  carved  and 
finished,  stood  there  complete  to  show  how  well  work  could  be 
done;  and  then  there  was  work  in  all  stages  of  finish,  some 
pieces  of  marble  just  begun  to  be  chiselled,  little  and  great, 
simple  and  elegant.  Then  there  were  broken  pieces  of  marble 
lying  there  apparently  useless,  and  some  otherwise,  but  broken 
in  process  of  chiselling. 

Not  one  of  all  these  escaped  the  quick  eye  of  the  little  street 
vagrant  (as  any  of  us  would  have  called  him)  who  had  entered 
the  yard  a  few  moments  before  with  such  a  business  air,  and 
walked  from  one  to  the  other  and  scanned  them  closely.  We 
had  paid  little  attention  to  him,  for  we  thought  that  for  want 
of  something  worse  to  do  he  had  just  wandered  in.  It  was  his 
first  question  that  startled  us.  The  smiles  dietl  away  from  the 
faces  of  all  as  we  listened  to  him.  He  stepped  nearer  to  the 
one  that  he  took  to  be  boss  among  us,  and  said: 

"I  say,  mister,  how  much  does  this  cost?"  He  pointed  to  a 
plain  marble  slab  that  looked  simple  enough  in  the  midst  of 
so  many  finer  ones.  I  can't  tell  you  how  his  question  sounded, 
for  you  can't  hear  his  voice.  It  had  in  it  something  which 
brought  tears  instead  of  smiles. 

The  boss  named  the  price;  a  disappointed  look  crept  over 
the  face  of  the  ragged  little  newsboy,  and  with  a  forced  smile 
that  was  sadder  than  tears  he  looked  up  with: 

"Why,  that's  more  than  I  thought;  I  ain't  able  to  pay  that." 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  1 1 

He  went  on  through  the  smaller  ones  inquiring  the  price  of 
each,  and  each  time  looking  his  disappointment  that  all  were 
too  costly  for  his  small  means.  Finally  he  stopped  in  front  of 
a  broken  shaft  of  marble;  one  of  the  remains  of  an  accident  in 
the  yard  the  day  before.  He  took  off  his  ragged  hat,  and  gaz- 
ing at  the  broken  stone  for  a  few  moments  he  stammered  out: 

"I  say,  mister,  that  looks  like  her  somehow.  How  much 
may  I  have  it  for  ?  " 

He  was  asked  if  he  wanted  it  lettered,  and  when  it  was  ex- 
plained to  him  what  that  meant,  and  that  it  would  cost  some- 
thing to  have  it  done,  he  said: 

''No;  I  can't  afford  that,  but  p'raps  I  can  manage  that  my- 
self," and  again  that  sad,  forced  smile.  "Ye  see,"  he  went  on, 
"  mother  and.  I  were  all  there  was  left  of  us,  leastways  as  far 
as  we  know,|for  we  haven't  heard  from  father  for  ever  so  long. 
We  kept  house  together.  I  earned  what  I  could,  and  mother 
she  worked  as  long  as  she  was  able.  She  wasn't  very  old,  but 
she  was  always  crying,  only  when  she  cheered  up  to  make  her 
little  son  happy — that's  what  she  called  me;  but  she  couldn't 
cheer  up  for  long       She    grew  sicker  and  sicker,  and — well — I 

did  all  I  could  for  her;  but — she  died  last  week "     Thelittle 

fellow  was  sobbing  now  as  he  leaned  on  the  broken  shaft  that 
reminded  him  of  his  mother. 

His  tears  were  not  the  only  ones,  Lean  tell  you.  We  nodded 
to  the  boss,  and  he  named  a  price  so  small  that  the  manly  little 
fellow  looked  up  with  amazement  that  at  last  he  had  found 
something  within  his  means.  He  quickly  closed  the  bargain 
and  counted  out  the  nickels  and  pennies  for  his  prize.  He 
walked  about  for  a  few  moments  among  the  stones  spelling  out, 
as  best  he  could,  the  inscriptions,  asked  several  questions  about 
how  it  was  done,  and  how  long  it  took,  then  hastily  went  out 
like  a  man  of  business,  saying: 

"I'll  be  after  it  to-morrow." 

He  came  toward  the  middle  of  the  day  when  the  mornrng 


12  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

papers  were  all  sold.  He  had  a  little  cart  which  he  asked  us 
to  load  the  stone  in,  and  never  a  purchaser  had  left  that  yard 
with  a  sweeter,  sadder  satisfaction  than  our  little  hero.  He 
took  the  streets  toward  the  cemetery  —  we  knew,  for  we 
watched  him. 

We  half  expected  he  would  turn  up  some  day  to  learn  more 
about  the  lettering  or  something  but  he  never  came,  and  our 
curiosity,  we  thought,  was  likely  never  to  be  gratified. 

One  Monday  morning  as  we  gathered  at  our  work,  one  of  the 
men,  who  had  seemed  particularly  sober,  startled  us  with: 

"  I  say,  boys,  wouldn't  you  like  to  know  what  became  of  our 
little  newsman  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes;  what  do  you  know  of  him?"  came  from  several 
at  once. 

"Well,"  said  the  workman,  "I  will  own  I  have  thought  of 
the  little  fellow  every  day  since  he  was  here;  and  somehow 
couldn't  get  rid  of  the  thought  that  I  should  like  to  know  what 
had  become  of  him.  How  to  find  out  I  couldn't  tell,  for  not 
one  of  us  had  asked  where  he  lived  or  his  name  or  knew  any 
one  who  could  tell  us.  Yesterday  I  thought  of  a  plan;  and  so 
in  the  afternoon  I  started  for  the  cemetery  I  thought  it  likely 
he  carried  his  stone  to.  I  was  lucky,  for  at  almost  my  first 
question  the  man  in  charge  seemed  to  know  whom  I  meant,  and 
asked  if  I  would  know  the  stone  if  I  saw  it.  I  told  him  I 
would,  and  he  started  with  me. toward  a  corner  of  the  cemetery 
that  I  was  afraid  was  the  Potter's  Field.  I  asked  him  if  he 
was  taking  me  to  to  the  paupers'  burying-ground,  for  I  could 
not  somehow  bear  to  think  that  our  little  newsman's  mother 
had  had  no  better  place  to  be  laid  away  in.      He  answered: 

'"No;  but  if  it  hadn't  been  for  one  of  your  good  churches 
down  there  in  the  city,  she  would  have  fared  no  better  than  all 
other  paupers.  You  know  the  big  mission  church  down  on  the 
avenue?  Well,  they  couldn't  think  of  burying  their  Sunday- 
school  scholars  in  the   Potter's  Field,  if  they  were  "  only  pau- 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  13 

pers,"  many  of  them;  and  so  several  years  ago  they  bought  a# 
big  lot  up  here  just  for  them,  and  there's  where  I'm  taking 
you.  Here  it  is,'  he  said,  as  we  stopped  in  front  of  a  big  lot, 
nicely  fixed  up — and  sure  enough  there  was  our  monument,  at 
the  head  of  one  of  the  larger  graves.  I  knew  it  at  once,  just 
as  it  was  when  it  left  our  yard,  I  was  going  to  say,  until  I  got 
a  little  nearer  to  it,  and  saw  what  the  little  chap  had  done.  O 
boys,  I  can't  describe  to  you  the  lettering  on  that  stone.  I 
will  confess  that  something  blurred  my  eyes  so  I  couldn't  read 
it  at  first.  The  little  man  had  tried  to  keep  the  lines  straight, 
and  evidently  thought  that  capitals  would  make  it  look  better 
and  bigger,  for  nearly  every  letter  was  a  capital.  I  copied 
it,  and  here  it  is,  but  you  want  to  see  it  on  the  stone  to  appre- 
ciate it; 

'MY  mOTHER 

SHEE  DIDE  LAST  WEAK. 

SHEE  WAS  ALL  I  HAD.      SHEE 

SED  SHEAD  Bee  WalTIN  FUR—' 

And  here,  boys,  the  lettering  stopped.  After  a  while  I  went 
back  to  the  man  in  charge,  and  asked  him  what  further  he 
knew  of  the  little  fellow  who  brought  the  stone. 

"'Not  much,'  he  said,  'not  much.  Didn't  you  notice  a  fresh 
little  grave  near  the  one  with  the  stone?  Well,  he  lies  there. 
He  had  been  coming  here  every  afternoon  for  some  time,  work- 
ing away  at  that  stone,  and  one  day  I  missed  him,  and  then  for 
several  days.  Then  the  man  canjie  out  from  that  church  that 
had  buried  the  mother  and  ordered  the  grave  dug  by  her  side. 
I  asked  if  it  was  for  the  little  chap.  He  said  it  was.  He  had 
sold  his  papers  all  out  one  day  and  was  hurrying  along  the 
street  out  this  way.  He  didn't  notice  the  runaway  team  just 
above  the  crossing,  and — well — he  was  run  over,  and  didn't 
live  but  a  day  or  two.  He  had  in  his  hand  when  he  was  picked 
up  an  old  file,  sharpened  down  to  a  point,  that  he  did  all   t'ne 


14  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

lettering  on  that  stone  with./  They  said  he  seemed  to  be 
thinking  only  of  that  until  he  died,  for  he  kept  saying:  "  J 
didn't  get  it  done,  but  she'll  know  I  meant  to  finish  it,  won't 
she?  I'll  tell  her  so,  for  she'll  be  waiting  for  me.'"  And, 
boys,  he  died  with  those  words  on  his  lips." 

We  were  still  for  a  while;   none  of  us  wanted  to  say  anything. 

"And  now,  boys,  what  shall  we  do?"  said  the  man  who  had 
told  us  the  story. 

"Do;  why  here  is  what  I  want  to  do,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
"get  the  best  stone  in  the  yard,  and  here's  a  V  to  begin  it." 

We  all  threw  in,  and  if  we  didn't  get  him  the  best  stone,  we 
got  him  a  good  one.  Under  his  name — we  got  it  from  the 
superintendent  of  the  school,  and  put  it  on  because  of  the  father, 
who  might  some  day  come  back — we  put:  "He  loved  his 
mother;"  and  I'll  warrant  you  will  find  no  better  lettering  in 
that  cemetery  than  you  will  find  on  that  stone. 

The  superintendent  of  the  Sunday-school  wanted  us  to  let 
him  know  when  we  put  up  the  stone,  and  a  regular  delegation 
of  them  went  out  with  us,  he  and  some  of  the  teachers,  all  of 
the  little  newsman's  class,  and  a  good  many  of  the  other 
scholars,  and  the  good  man  who  built  the  church  got  into  the 
city  the  night  before  and  came  out  with  them.  He  had  heard 
something  of  the  story  from  the  teacher,  but  you  ought  to  have 
seen  him  when  he  looked  at  those  stones;  the  tears  ran  down 
his  cheeks  and  he  didn't  try  to  stop  them,  either. 

He  made  a  little  speech,  and  after  we  had  set  the  stone  told 
the  scholars  how  the  little  fellow  had  loved  and  worked  for  his 
mother,  and  how  he  had  denied  himself  to  put  up  this  little 
stone  to  her  memory.  He  told  them  that  the  little  fellow  loved 
the  Saviour,  too,  and  tried  to  live  to  please  Him. 

"Children,"  he  said,  "I  would  rather  be  that  brave,  loving. 
Christian  little  newsboy,  and  lie  there  with  that  on  my  tomb- 
stone, than  be  king  of  the  world  and  not  love  and  respect  my 
mother." 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  1 5 


THE   TWO    MYSTERIES. 


MARY    MAPES    DODGE. 


WE  know  not  what  it  is,  dear,  this  sleep  so  deep  and  still, 
The  folded  hands,  the   awful   calm,  the   cheek   so   pale 
and  chill, 
The  lids  that  will  not  lift  again,  though  we  may  call  and  call, 
The  strange  white  solitude  of  peace  that  settles  over  all. 

We  know  not  what  it  means,  dear,  this  desolate  heart-pain, 
The  dread  to  take  our  daily  way  and  walk  in  it  again. 
We  know  not  to  what  sphere  the  loved  who  leave  us  go, 
Nor  why  we're  left  to  wonder  still,  nor  why  we  do  not  know. 

But  this  we  know,  our  loved  and  lost,  if  they  should  come  this 

day, 
Should  come  and  ask  us,  What  is  life?  not  one  of  us  could  say. 
Life  is  a  mystery  as  deep  as  death  can  ever  be; 
Yet,  oh,  how  sweet  it  is  to  us,  this  life  we  live  and  see! 

Then  might  they  say,  those  vanished   ones,  and  blessed  is  the 

thought, 
So   death    is   sweet   to   us,  beloved,    though    we   may  tell    you 

naught ; 
We  may  not  tell  it  to  the  quick,  this  mystery  of  death; 
Ye  may  not  tell  it  if  ye  would,  the  mystery  of  breath. 

The  child  who  enters  life  comes  not  with  knowledge  or  intent, 
So  those  who  enter  death  must  go  as  little  children  sent; 
Nothing  is  known,  but  1  believe  that  God  is  overhead; 
And  as  life  is  to  the  living  so  death  is  to  the  dead. 


1 6  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


NOT    KNOWING. 


I    KNOW  not  what  will  befall  me,  God  hangs      mist  o'er  my 
eyes: 
And  o'er  each   step  of  my  onward  path   He  makes  new   scenes 

to  rise, 
And  every  joy  He  sends  me  comes  as  a  sweet  and  glad  surprise. 

I  see  not  a  step  before  me,  as  I  tread  the  days  of  the  year; 
But  the  past   is   still  in  God's   keeping,  the    future  His  mercy 

shall  clear; 
And  what  looks  dark  'in  the  distance  may  brighten   as  I  draw 

near. 

For  perhaps  the  dreaded  future  has  less  bitter  than  I  think; 
The  Lord  may  sweeten  the  water  before  I  stoop  to  drink; 
Or,  if  Marah  must  be  Marah,  He  will  stand  beside  its  brink. 

It  may  be  He  has  waiting  for  the  coming  of  my  feet 

Some  gift  of  such  rare  blessings,  some  joy  so  strangely  sweet, 

That  my  life  can  only  tremble  with  the  thanks  I  can't  repeat. 

0  restful,  blissful  ignorance!  'Tis  blessed  not  to  know; 
It  keeps  me  quiet  in  the  arms  which  will  not  let  me  go: 
And  hushes  my  soul  to  rest  on  the  bosom  which  loves  me  so. 

So  I  go  on  not  knowing;  I  would  not  if  I  might; 

1  would  rather  walk  in  the  dark  with  God  than  go  alone  in  the 

light; 
I  would  rather  walk  with  Him  by  faith  than  walk  alone  by 
sight. 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS.  l  7 

My  heart  shrinks  back  from  trials  which  the  future  may  dis- 
close; 

Yet  I  never  had  a  sorrow  but  what  the  dear  Lord  chose; 

So  I  send  the  coming  tears  back  with  the  whispered  words, 
"  He  knows." 


THE    POOR    CHILDREN. 


VICTOR    HUGO. 


TAKE,  of  that  little  being,  care, 
For  he  is  great  and  God  contains — 
Before  their  birth  these  infants  are 
Lights  in  the  heaven's  azure  fanes. 

They  the  kind  hand  of  God  bestows; 

They  come  and  the  free  gift  is  His; 
His  wisdom  in  their  laughter  shows, 

And  His  forgiveness  in  their  kiss. 

Their  gentle  radiance  makes  us  bright; 

Their  right  is  pleasure  to  receive; 
They  hunger!      Heaven  weeps  at  the  sight, 

And  when  they're  cold,  the  angels  grieve. 

When  innocence  is  in  distress, 

Man  it  convicts  of  infamy. 
Men  over  angels  power  possess 

Ah,  me!  What  thunders  fill  the  sky 

When  God — seeking  those  tender  things 
Whom,  as  we  slumber  in  this  shade, 

He  sends  us  decked  in  angels'  wings — 
Finds  them  in  rags  and  filth  arrayed! 


i8 


JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS 


HAvSTE    NOT— REST    NOT. 


JOHANN    WOLFGANG    VON    GOETHE. 


"TTHTHOUT  haste!  without  rest!" 
VV       Bind  the  motto  to  thy  breast! 
Bear  it  with  thee  as  a  spell; 
Storm  or  sunshine,  guard  it  well! 
Heed  not  flowers  that  round  thee  bloom. 
Bear  it  onward  to  the  tomb. 

Haste  not!  Let  no  thoughtless  deed 
Mar  fore'er  the  spirit's  speed; 
Ponder  well  and  know  the  right, 
Onward,  then,  with  all  thy  might; 
Haste  not — years  can  ne'er  atone 
For  one  reckless  action  done. 

Rest  not!      Life  is  sweeping  by, 
Do  and  dare  before  you  die; 
Something  mighty  and  sublime 
Leave  behind  to  conquer  time; 
Glorious  'tis  to  live  for  aye 
When  these  forms  have  passed  away. 

Haste  not!   rest  not!     Calmly  wait, 
Meekly  bear  the  storms  of  fate; 
Duty  be  thy  polar  guide — 
Do  the  right,  whate'er  betide! 
Haste  not!   rest  not !     Conflicts  past, 
God  shall  crown  thy  work  at  last. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  19 


BILLY'S  FIRST  AND  LAST  DRINK  OP  LAGER. 


I"  Poy  Pilly  "  was  the  adopted  son  of  Father  Zende,  an  eccentric  Teuton, 
who  was  much  shocked  at  seeing  the  boy  in  a  saloon  taking  a  glass  of  lager. 
He  bade  the  boy  go  home,  but  said  nothing  about  the  matter  till  evening. 
After  tea,  Zende  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  placed  before  him  a  variety 
of  queer  things,  whereon  Billy  looked  with  curiosity.] 

U|70MMEN  sie  hier,  Pilly!"  cried  Zende.    "  Vy  vast  du  in 

IV      te  peer  shops  to-tay,  hein  ?     Vy  trinks  peer,  mein  poy  ?  " 

"Oh,  oh,  because  it's  good,"  said  Billy,  boldly. 

"  No,  Pilly,  eet  vast  not  gute  to  dein  mout.      I  did  see  neffer 

so  pig  vaces  als  didst  make,  Pilly.      Pilly,  you  dinks  eet  vill 

dast  gute  py-ant-py,  and  eet  ees  like  a  man  to  trink,  ant  so  you 

trinks.      Now,  Pilly,  eef  it   is  gute,  haf  eet;  ef  it  ees  likes  ein 

man,  trinks,  Pilly.      I  vill  not  hinders  you  vrom  vat  ees  gute 

ant  manly,  mein   shilt;  but  trinks  at  home,  dakes  your  trink 

pure,  Pilly,  and  lets  me  pays  vor  eet.      Kom,  mein  poy!     You 

likes  peer.      Veil,  kom,  open  dein  mout,  hier  I  half  all  te  peer 

stuff  simons  pure  vrom  te  shops,  mein   poy.      Kom,  opens  dein 

mout,  ant  I  vill  puts  eet  een." 

Billy  drew  near,  but  kept  his  mouth  close  shut.  Said  Zende, 
"Don'  you  makes  me  madt,  Pilly!     Opens  dein  mout!  " 

Thus  exhorted,  Billy  opened  his  mouth,  and  Zende  put  a 
small  bit  of  alum  in  it.  Billy  drew  up  his  face,  but  boys  can 
stand  alum.  After  a  little,  Zende  cried,  "Opens  dein  mout, 
peer  ist  not  all  alums!"  And  he  dropped  in  a  bit  of  aloes. 
This  was  worse.  Billy  winced.  Again,  "Opens  dein  mout!  " 
The  least  morsel  of  red  pepper,  now,  from  a  knife-point;  but 
Billy  howled. 

"Vat!  not  likes  dein  peer!"  said  Zende.  "Opens  dein 
mout!"  just  touched  now  with  a  knife-point  dipped  in  oil  of 
turpentine.  Billy  began  to  cry.  "Opens  dein  mout,  dein  peer 
is  not  haf  mate,  yet,  Pilly!  "     And  Billy's  tongue  got  the  least 


20  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

dusting  of  lime  and  potash  and  saleratus.  Billy  now  cried 
loudly.  "Opens  dein  mout!  "  Unlucky  Billy!  This  time 
about  a  grain  of  licorice,  hop  pollen,  and  saltpetre. 

14  Looks,  Pilly!  Here  ist  some  arsenic,  and  some  strychnine; 
dese  pelongs  een  te  peer.      Opens  dein  mout!  " 

"I  can't,  I  can't!"  roared  Billy.  "Arsenic  ant  strychnine 
are  to  kill  rats!  I  shall  die — O — O — O — do  you  want  to  kill 
me,  Father  Zende?" 

"Kills  him;  joost  py  ein  leetle  peer !  all  gute  ant  pure!  He 
dells  me  he  likes  peer,  ant  eet  ees  manly  to  trinks  eet,  ant  vet> 
I  gives  heem  te  peer  he  cries  I  kills  heem!  So,  Pilly,  hier. 
ees  water;  dere  ist  mooch  water  een  peer — trinks  dat!  " 

Billy  drank  the  water  eagerly.  Zende  went  on,  "Ant,  dere 
ees  mooch  alcohol  een  peer.  Hier!  opens  dein  mout!  "  and  he 
dropped  four  drops  of  raw  spirit  carefully  on  his  tongue.  Billy 
went  dancing  about  the  room,  and  then  ran  for  more  water. 

"  Koramen  sie  hier,  dein  peer  ist  not  done,  Pilly,"  shouted 
Zende ;  and,  seizing  him,  he  put  the  cork  of  an  ammonia  bottle  to 
his  lips,  then  a  drop  of  honey,  a  taste  of  sugar,  a  drop  of 
molasses,  a  drop  of  gall;  then,  "Pilly!  hier  ist  more  of  dein 
peer!  Hier  ist  jalap,  copperas,  sulphuric  acid,  acetic  acid, 
ant  nux  vomica;  opens  dein  mout!  " 

"Oh,  no,  no!  Let  me  go!  I  hate  beer!  I'll  never  drink  any 
more!  I'll  never  go  in  that  shop  again;  I'll  be  a  good  boy — 
I'll  sign  the  pledge.  Oh,  let  me  be!  I  can't  eat  those  things! 
I'll  die!  My  mouth  tastes  awful  now.  Oh,  take  'em  away, 
Father  Zende!  " 

"  Dakes  'emavay?  dakes  avay  dein  gute  peer?"  cried  the 
old  man,  innocently,  "  ven  I  hafs  pait  vor  eet,  and  mein  Pilly 
can  trink  eet  pure  at  hees  home,  likes  ein  shentilman  !  Vy,  poy, 
dese  ist  te  makin's  of  peer,  ant  you  no  likes  dem  ?  All  dese 
honey,  ant  sugar,  ant  vater,  poy?" 

"  But  the  other  things.  Oh,  the  other  things — they  are  the 
biggest  part — ugh!  they  make  me  sick." 


FAVORITE   SELECTIONS.  2  1 

"  Mein  poy,  you  trinks  dem  fast  to-tay!  Look,  Pilly — a 
man  he  trinks  all  dese  pad  dings  mix  up  een  vater,  ant  call  peer. 
Ach!  he  gets  redt  in  hees  faces,  he  gets  pig  een  hees  poddy,  he 
gets  shaky  een  hees  hands,  he  gets  clumsy  on  hees  toes,  he  gets 
veak  een  hees  eyes,  he  gets  pad  een  hees  breat,  he  gets  mean  een 
hees  manners.  Vy!  Pilly,  you  sees  vy.  All  dese  dings  on 
mein  dable  ees  vy!  " 

Happy  Billy!  Few  boys  get  so  good  a  temperance  lecture, 
such  home  thrusts,  such  practical  experiments  as  fall  to  your 
lot.      Billy  was  satisfied  on  the  beer  question. 

"  He  ees  all  gute  now,"  said  Zende.  "  I  hafs  no  more  drou- 
bles  mit  mein  Pilly." 


ADVICE    TO    A    HARD    STUDENT. 


STILL  vary  thy  incessant  task,  nor  plod  each  weary  day 
As  if  thy  life  were  thing  of  earth — a  servant  to  its  clay. 
Alternate  with  thy  honest  work  some  contemplations  high: 
Though  toil  be  just,  though  gold   be  good,  look  upward  to  the 
sky. 

Take   pleasure   for   thy   limbs  at  morn;   at  noontide    wield   the 

pen; 
Converse  to-night   with   moon  and   stars;   to-morrow   talk  with 

men. 
Cull    garlands  in   the   fields   and   bowers,  or  toy   with   running 

brooks; 
Then  rifle  in  thy  chamber  lone  the  honey  of  thy  books. 

If  in  the  wrestlings  of  the  mind  a  gladiator  strong, 
Give  scope  and  freedom  to   thy  thought,  but  strive  not  over- 
long. 
Climb  to  the  mountain-top  serene,  and  let  life's  surges  beat, 
With  all  their  whirl  of  striving  men,  far,  far  beneath  thy  feet. 


2  2  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

But  stay  not  ever  on  the  height,  'mid  intellectual  snow, 

Come  down  betimes  to  tread  the  grass,  and  roam  where  wa- 
ters flow; 

Come  down  betimes  to  rub  thy  hands  at  the  domestic  hearth; 

Come  down  to  share  the  warmth  of  love,  and  join  the  children's 
mirth. 


BRAHMA. 


The  following  from  "  Dschelaleddin  Rumi  "  (translated  by  Ritter)  describes 
the  god  Brahma,  and  is  probably  the  only  poem  in  the  world  which  comes 
anywhere  near  picturing  the  great  Creator  of  all  things.  The  Brahmin's 
belief  is  that  everything  that  is,  is  God. 

I    AM  the  mote  in  the  sunbeam,  and  I  am  the  burning  sun; 
"Rest    here!"   I    whisper    the    atom;   I    call   to   the    orb, 
"Roll  on!  " 

I  am  the  blush  of  the  morning,  and  I  am  the  evening  breeze; 

I  am  the  leaf's  low  murmur,  the  swell  of  the  terrible  seas. 

I  am  the  net,  the  fowler,  the  bird  and  its  frightened  cry; 

The  mirror,  the  fprm  reflected,  the  sound  and  its  echo,  I; 

The  lover's  passionate  pleading,  the  maiden's  whispered  fear; 

The  warrior,  the  bKade  that  smites  him,    his  mother's  heart- 
wrung  tear; 

I  am  intoxication,  grapes,  wine-press  and  musk  and  wine, 

The  guest,  the  host,  the  traveller,  the  goblet  of  crystal  fine. 

I  am  the  breath  of  the  flute,  I  am  the  mind  of  man. 

Cold's  glitter,  the   light  of  the  diamond,  and  the  sea  pearl's 
lustre  wan ; 

The  rose,  her  poet    nightingale,  and  the  songs  from  his  throat 
that  rise; 

The  flint,  the  sparks,  the  taper,  the  moth   that  about  it  flies; 

I  am  both  Good  and  Evil,  the  deed  and  the  deed's  intent; 

Temptation,  victim,  sinner,  crime,  pardon,  and  punishment; 

I  am  what  was,  is,  will  be — creation's  ascent  and  fall; 

The  link,  the  chain  of  existence;  beginning  and  end  of  all. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  23 

BUTTERCUPS    AND    DAISIES. 


DURING  one  of  last  summer's  hottest  days,  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  seated  in  a  railway  car  near  a  mother  and 
four  children,  whose  relations  with  each  other  were  singularly 
beautiful.  It  was  plain  that  they  were  poor.  The  mother's 
bonnet  alone  would  have  been  enough  to  condemn  the  whole  in 
any  one  of  the  world's  thoroughfares,  but  her  face  was  one 
which  it  gave  a  sense  of  rest  to  look  upon;  it  was  earnest, 
tender,  true,  and  strong.  The  children — two  boys  and  two 
girls — were  all  under  the  age  of  twelve,  and  the  youngest  could 
not  speak  plainly. 

They  had  had  a  rare  treat.  They  had  been  visiting  the 
mountains,  and  were  talking  over  the  wonders  they  had  seen 
with  a  glow  of  enthusiastic  delight  which  was  to  be  envied  ;  and 
the  mother  bore  her  part  all  the  while  with  such  equal  interest 
and  eagerness,  that  no  one  not  seeing  her  face  would  have 
dreamed  that  she  was  any  other  than  an  elder  sister. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  there  were  many  occasions  when  it 
was  necessary  for  her  to  deny  requests  and  to  ask  services, 
especially  from  the  elder  boy,  but  no'girl  anxious  to  please  a 
lover  could  have  done  either  with  a  more  tender  courtesy.  She 
had  her  reward,  for  no  lover  could  have  been  more  tender 
and  manly  than  was  the  boy  of  twelve. 

Their  lunch  was  simple  and  scanty,  but  it  had  the  grace  of 
a  royal  banquet.  At  the  last  the  mother  produced  with  much 
glee  three  apples  and  an  orange,  of  which  the  children  had 
not  known.  All  eyes  fastened  on  the  orange.  It  was  evidently 
a  great  rarity.  I  watched  to  see  if  this  test  would  bring  out 
selfishness.  The  mother  said:  "How  shall  I  divide  this? 
There  is  one  for  each  of  you,  and  I  shall  be  best  off  of  ali,  for 
I  expect  big  tastes  from  each  of  you." 

''  Oh,  give  Annie  the  orange!     Annie  loves  oranges,"  spoke 


24  JULIA    AND    A  NX  IE     THOMAS' 

out  the  elder  boy,  with  the  air  of  a  conqueror,  at  the  same 
time  taking  the  smallest  and  worst  apple  for  himself.  "Oh, 
yes,  let  Annie  have  the  orange,"  echoed  the  second  boy,  nine 
years  old. 

"Yes,  Annie  may  have  the  orange,  because  it  is  nicer  than 
the  apple,  and  she  is  a  lady  and  her  brothers  are  gentlemen," 
said  the  mother,  quietly.  Then  there  was  a  merry  contest  as 
to  who  should  feed  the  mother  with  the  largest  and  most 
frequent  mouthfuls;  and  so  the  feast  went  on. 

Then  Annie  pretended  to  want  apple,  and  exchanged  thin 
golden  strips  of  orange  for  bites  out  of  the  cheeks  of  Baldwins; 
and  as  I  sat  watching  her  intently,  she  suddenly  fancied  she 
saw  a  longing  in  my  face,  and  sprang  over  to  me,  saying,  "  Do 
you  want  a  taste,  too?  " 

The  mother  smiled  understandingly  when  I  said,  "No,  I 
thank  you,  you  dear,  generous  little  girl;  I  don't  care  about 
oranges." 

At  noon  we  had  a  tedious  interval  of  waiting  at  a  dreary 
station.  We  sat  for  two  hours  on  a  narrow  platform  which  the 
sun  had  scorched  till  it  smelt  of  heat.  The  elder  boy,  the 
little  lover,  held  the  youngest  child  and  talked  to  her,  while 
the  tired  mother  closed'her  eyes  and  rested. 

The  other  two  children  were  toiling  up  and  down  the  rail- 
road banks,  picking  ox-eyed  daisies,  buttercups,  and  sorrel. 
They  worked  like  beavers,  and  soon  the  bunches  were  almost 
too  big  for  their  little  hands.  They  came  running  to  give 
them  to  their  mother. 

"Oh,  dear!"  thought  I;  "how  that  poor  tired  woman  will 
hate  to  open  her  eyes!  and  she  never  can  take  those  great 
bunches  of  wilting,  worthless  flowers  in  addition  to  her  bundles 
and  bags."     I  was  mistaken. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  my  darlings'  How  kind  you  were!  Poor, 
hot  tired  little  flowers,  how  thirsty  they  look1  If  they  will 
try  and  keep  alive  till  we  get  home,  we  wili   make   them   very 


FAVORITE  SELECTIONS.  25 

happy  in  some  water,  won't  we?  And  you  shall  put  one  bunch 
by  papa's  plate  and  one  by  mine." 

Sweet  and  happy,  the  weary  and  flushed  little  children  stood 
looking  up  in  her  face  while  she  talked,  their  hearts  thrilling 
with  compassion  for  the  drooping  flowers,  and  with  delight  in 
giving  their  gift.  Then  she  took  great  trouble  to  get  a  string 
and  tie  up  the  flowers ;  and  the  train  came,  and  we  were  whirl- 
ing along  again. 

Soon  it  grew  dark,  and  little  Annie's  head  nodded.  Then 
I  heard  the  mother  say  to  the  elder  boy,  "Dear,  are  you  too 
tired  to  let  little  Annie  put  her  head  on  your  shoulder  and  take 
a  nap?  We  shall  get  her  home  in  much  better  case  to  her 
papa,  if  we  can  manage  to  give  her  a  little  sleep."  How  many 
little  boys  of  twelve  hear  such  words  as  these  from  tired,  over- 
burdened mothers? 

Soon  came  the  city,  the  final  station,  with  its  bustle  and  noise. 
I  lingered  to  watch  my  happy  family,  hoping  to  see  the  father. 
"Why,  papa  isn't  here !"  exclaimed  one  disappointed  little 
voice  after  another.  "  Never  mind,"  said  the  mother,  with  a 
still  deeper  disappointment  in  her  tone ;  "  perhaps  he  had  to  go 
to  see  some  poor  body  who  is  sick." 

In  the  hurry  of  picking  up  all  the  parcels  and  the  sleepy 
babies,  the  poor  daisies  and  buttercups  were  left  forgotten  in 
the  corner  of  the  rack.  I  wondered  if  the  mother  had  not  in- 
tended this.  May  I  be  forgiven  for  the  injustice !  A  few 
minutes  after  I  had  passed  the  little  group,  standing  still  just 
outside  the  station,  I  heard  the  mother  say :  "Oh,  my  darlings, 
I  have  forgotten  your  pretty  bouquets.  I  am  so  sorry !  I  won- 
der if  I  could  find  them  if  I  went  back?  Will  you  all  stand 
still  and  not  stir  from  this  spot,  if  I  go?" 

"  Oh,  mamma,  don't  go !  We  will  get  you  some  more. 
Don't  go !  "  cried  all  the  children. 

"  Here  are  your  flowers,  madam,"  said  I.  "  I  saw  you  had 
forgotten  them,  and  I  took  them  as  mementos  of  you  and  your 


26  JULIA  AND  ANNIE  THOMAS' 

sweet  children."  She  blushed  and  looked  disconcerted.  She 
was  evidently  unused  to  people,  and  shy  with  all  but  her 
children. 

However,  she  thanked  me  sweetly,  and  said :  "  I  was  very 
sorry  about  them.  The  children  took  such  trouble  to  get 
them,  and  I  think  they  will  revive  in  water.  They  cannot  be 
quite  dead." 

"  They  will  never  die !  "  said  I  with  an  emphasis  which  went 
from  my  heart  to  hers.  Then  all  her  shyness  fled.  We  shook 
hands,  and  smiled  into  each  other's  eyes  with  the  smile  of 
kindred  as  we  parted. 

As  I  followed  on,  I  heard  the  two  children  who  were  walking 
behind  saying  to  each  other  :  "Wouldn't  that  have  been  too  bad  ! 
Mamma  liked  them  so  much,  and  we  never  could  have  got  so 
many  all  at  once  again." 

"  Yes,  we  could,  too,  next  summer,"  said  the  boy,  sturdily. 

They  are  sure  of  their  "next  summer,"  I  think,  all  of  those 
six  souls — children,  and  mother,  and  father.  They  may  never 
raise  so  many  ox-eyed  daisies  and  buttercups  "all  at  once." 
Perhaps  some  of  the  little  hands  have  already  picked  their  last 
flowers.  Nevertheless  their  summers  are  certain  to  such  souls 
as  these,  either  here  or  in  God's  larger  country. 


GOLDEN-ROD. 


C.   A.   KIEFE. 


GOLDEN-ROD,   nodding   a   welcome,   golden-rod,   bonny 
and  bright, 
You  bring  to  my  mind  a  picture,  as  you  wave  in  the  wind 

to-night — 
Glory  of  August  sunshine,  music  of  birds  and  bees, 
Hum  of  a  thousand  insects,  shadow  of  apple-trees. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  2  7 

Close  by  the  dusty  roadside,  perched  on  a  railing  high, 
Right  where  the  scorching  sun-kiss  darts  from  the  blazing  sky, 
Two  happy,  sun-browned  children,  careless  and  glad  and  gay, 
Dream  out  their  dreams  of  Elfland  through  the  long  summer 
day. 

Hats  at  their  feet  are  lying — they  do  not  heed  the  glare, 
While  to  their  childish  fancies  visions  throng,  passing  fair. 
Each  is  a  fairy  princess,  mounted  on  steed  so  fleet 
Scarcely  the  ground  he  touches  with  his  fast-flying  feet. 

Each  is  a  fairy  princess,  each  has  a  golden  crown, 
Pressing  the  sunburnt  forehead  guiltless  of  care's  dark  frown. 
Each  has  a  fairy  sceptre — sceptres  that  sway  and  nod; 
Sceptres  and  crowns  are  blossoms — blossoms  of  golden-rod. 

Is  there  a  spell  still  hidden  deep  in  your  cells  of  gold, 
Such  as  gave  peasant  children  castles  and  lands  to  hold? 
Such  as  transformed  a  fence-rail  into  a  panting  steed? 
Such  as  made  yellow  blossoms  sceptres  of  gold,  indeed? 

Golden-rod,  nodding  a  welcome,  weave  once  again  the  spell! 
And,  with  your  old-time  magic,  heal  me  and  make  me  well! 
Soothe  my  tired  brain  with   fancies — dreams  that   have  nevei 

been ! 
Show  me  again  the  glories  I  have  in  Elfland  seen! 

What  have  the   long  years  brought   me   that   is  worth   half  as 

much  ? 
Come  back,  child-heart,  still  hidden  safe  from  the  world's  rude 

touch ! 
We  will  forget  earth's  struggles,  sitting  on  yon  green  sod; 
We  will  go  back  to  Elfland,  here,  with  the  golden-rod. 


2  8  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

TO   A    SKELETON. 


BEHOLD  this  ruin!     'Twas  a  skull 
Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full. 
This  narrow  cell  was  life's  retreat, 
This  space  was  thought's  mysterious  seat. 
What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot, 
What^dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot. 
Nor  hope,  nor  joy,  nor  love,  nor  fear, 
Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye, 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void — 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed, 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed, 

That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 

When  stars  and  sun  are  sunk  in  night. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 

The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue; 

If  falsehood's  honey  it  disdained, 

And  when  it  could  not  praise  was  chained 

If  bold  in  virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke — 

This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 

When  time  unveils  eternity! 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine? 
Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine? 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  a  gem 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them. 


FAVORITE   SELECTIONS.  *9 

But  if  the  page  of  truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  wealth  and  fame. 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  ease  they  fled 
To  seek  affliction's  humble  shed; 
If  grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  virtue's  cot  returned — 
These  feet  with  angel  wings  shall  vie; 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky! 


REVELATION. 


NEVER  say,  I  do  not  know; 
Say  I  tell,  and  earth  no  ear; 
Let  the  sibyl  spirals  flow 

Down  the  cycles  near  and  near. 

Never  say,  I  cannot  do ; 

Say  I  will,  and  wait  thou   there; 
Truth,  the  white-winged,  bears  the  true. 

And  the  true  the  truth  shall  bear. 

Never  say,  I  cannot  see; 

Look,  believing,  O  ye  blind! 
Till  the  grander  work  shall  be 

On  the  palimpsest  of  mind. 

Never  say,  or  dumb  or  deaf; 

Look  on  Him,  and  know,  and  do; 
So  translate  His  hieroglyph; 

Let  the  God  reveal  in  you. 


30  JULIA    AND   ANNIE    THOMAS' 


THE    BEAUTIFUL. 


E.    H.    UURR1NGT0N. 


WALK  with  the  Beautiful  and  with  the  Grand; 
Let  nothing  on  the  earth  thy  feet  deter; 
Sorrow  may  lead  thee  weeping  by  the  hand, 
But  give  not  all  thy  bosom  thoughts  to  her. 
Walk  with  the  Beautiful! 


I  hear  thee  say :  "  The  Beautiful !  what  is  it  ?  " 

Oh,  thou  art  darkly  ignorant!     Be  sure 
'Tis  no  long,  weary  road  its  form  to  visit, 

For  thou  canst  make  it  smile  beside  thy  door: 
Then  love  the  Beautiful ! 

Ay,  love  it!     'Tis  a  sister  that  will  bless 

And  teach  thee  patience  when  thy  heart  is  lonely; 

The  angels  love  it,  for  they  wear  its  dress, 

And  thou  art  made  a  little  lower  only; 

Then  love  the  Beautiful! 

Some  boast  its  presence  in  a  Grecian  face, 

Some  in  a  favorite  warbler  of  the  skies; 
Be  not  deceived!     Whate'er  thy  eye  may  trace, 

Seeking  the  Beautiful,  it  will  arise: 
Then  seek  it  everywhere! 

Thy  bosom  is  its  mint;   the  workmen  are 

Thy  thoughts,  and  they  must  coin  for  thee.      Believing 
The  Beautiful  exists  in  every  star, 

Thou  mak'st  it  so,  and  art  thyself  deceiving 
If  otherwise  thy  faith. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  $t 

Dost  thou  see  beauty  in  the  violet's  cup? 

I'll  teach  thee  miracles.      Walk  on  this  heath, 
And  say  to  the  neglected  flowers:  "  Look  up, 

And  be  ye  beautiful!"      If  thou  hast  faith, 
They  will  obey  thy  word. 

One  thing  I  warn  thee:  bow  no  knee  to  gold; 

Less  innocent  it  makes  the  guileless  tongue; 
It  turns  the  feelings  prematurely  old, 

And  they  who  keep  their  best  affections  young 
Best  love  the  Beautiful! 


LIBERTY    AND    INDEPENDENCE. 

THERE  was  tumult  in  the  city, 
In  the  quaint  old  Quaker  town, 
And  the  streets  were  rife  with  people 

Pacing  restless  up  and  down; 
People  gathering  at  corners, 

Where  they  whispered  each  to  each, 
And  the  sweat  stood  on  their  temples, 
With  the  earnestness  of  speech. 

As  the  bleak  Atlantic  currents 

Lash  the  wild  Newfoundland  shore, 
So  they  beat  against  the  State  House, 

So  they  surged  against  the  door; 
And  the  mingling  of  their  voices 

Made  a  harmony  profound, 
Till  the  quiet  street  of  Chestnut 

Was  all  turbulent  with  sound. 


32  JULIA    AXD    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

"  Will  they  do  it  ?  "     "  Dare  they  do  it  ?  " 

"Who  is  speaking?"     "What's  the  news? 
"  What  of  Adams  ?  "     "  What  of  Sherman  ? '' 

"  0  God!  grant  they  won't  refuse." 
"  Make  some  way  there !  "     "  Let  me  nearer! 

"I  am  stifling!"     "Stifle,  then! 
When  a  nation's  life's  at  hazard, 

AVe've  no  time  to  think  of  men." 

So  they  beat  against  the  portal, 

Man  and  woman,  maid  and  child; 
And  the  July  sun  in  heaven 

On  the  scene  looked  down  and  smiled. 
The  same  sun  that  saw  the  Spartan 

Shed  his  patriot  blood  in  vain, 
Now  beheld  the  soul  of  freedom, 

All  unconquered  rise  again. 

See!  see!   the  dense  crowd  quivers 

Through  all  its  lengthy  line, 
As  the  boy  beside  the  portal 

Looks  forth  to  give  the  sign; 
With  his  little  hands  uplifted, 

Breezes  dallying  with  his  hair, 
Hark!   with  deep,  clear  intonation 

Breaks  his  young  voice  on  the  air. 

Hushed  the  people's  swelling  murmur, 

List  the  boy's  exulting  cry! 
"Ring!  "  he  shouts,  "ring!   grandpa, 

Ring!   oh,  ring  for  Liberty? 
"  Quickly  at  the  given  signal 

The  old  bellman  lifts  his  hand, 
Forth  he  sends  the  good  news,  making 

Iron  music  through  the  land. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  33 

How  they  shouted!     What  rejoicing! 

How  the  old  bell  shook  the  air, 
Till  the  clang  of  freedom  ruffled 

The  calmly  gliding  Delaware! 
How  the  bonfires  and  the  torches 

Lighted  up  the  night's  repose! 
And  from  flames,  like  fabled  Phoenix, 

Our  glorious  liberty  arose. 

That  old  State  House  bell  is  silent, 

Hushed  is  now  its  clamorous  tongue; 
But  the  spirit  it  awakened 

Still  is  living — ever  young; 
And  when  we  greet  the  smiling  sunlight, 

On  the  fourth  of  each  July, 
We  will  ne'er  forget  the  bellman, 

Who,  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky, 
Rang  out  loudly  "  Independence," 

Which,  please  God,  shall  never  die. 


GOD'S    APPOINTMENTS. 


EMMA    C.    DOWD. 

TWO  men  went  forth  one  summer  hour, 
And  both  were  young  and  brave  and  true ; 
Two  loyal  hearts,  two  brains  of  power, 
Eager  to  dare  and  do. 

Each  followed  right,  each  turned  from  wrong, 

And  strove  his  errors  to,prutlive; 
Each  sought  with  hope  and  courage  strong 

The  best  life  has  to  give. 
3 


34  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

For  one  love's  fountain  yielded  up 
Its  sweetness — royally  he  quaffed; 

The  other  drank  a  brimming  cup, 
A  bitter,  bitter  draught. 

One  touched  but  stones,  they  turned  to  gold, 
Wealth  came  and  staid  at  his  command; 

The  other's  silver  turned  to  mold 
And  dust  within  his  hand. 

The  world  crowned  one  with  leaves  of  bay. 

He  ate  with  kings,  their  honors  shared; 
The  other  trod  a  barren  way, 

And  few  men  knew  or  cared. 

And  this  is  life:   two  sow,  one  reaps; 

Two  run  abreast,  one  gains  the  goal; 
One  laughs  aloud,  the  other  weeps 

In  anguish  of  his  soul. 

One  seems  of  fate  the  helpless  toy, 
Unbroken  one's  triumphant  chain; 

God  hath  appointed  one  to  joy, 
Appointed  one  to  pain. 

The  wisdom  that  doth  rule  the  world 
Is  wisdom  far  beyond  our  ken; 

But  when  all  seems  to  ruin  hurled, 
God's  hand  is  mighty  then. 

In  God's  appointments  I  believe. 

Trusting  His  love,  believe  in  this: 
That  though  from  day  to  day  men  grieve, 

And  life's  sweet  fruitage  miss, 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  35 

In  some  glad  future  they  shall  know 
Why  one  through  striving  may  not  win; 

The  Book  of  Life  will  surely  show 
Why  all  these  things  have  been. 


WHAT    OF    THAT? 


TIRED  !     Well,  what  of  that? 
Didst  fancy  life  was  spent  on  beds  of  ease, 
Fluttering  the  rose-leaves  scattered  by  the  breeze? 
Come,  rouse  thee,  work  while  it  is  called  to-day! 
Coward,  arise!   go  forth  upon  thy  way! 

Lonely!      And  what  of  that? 
Some  must  be  lonely!   'tis  not  given  to  all 
To  feel  a  heart  responsive  rise  and  fall, 
To  blend  another  life  into  its  own — 
Work  may  be  done  in  loneliness.      Work  on. 

Dark!      Well,  and  what  of  that? 
Didst  fondly  dream  the  sun  would  never  set? 
Dost  fear  to  lose  thy  way  ?     Take  courage  yet ! 
Learn  thou  to  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 
Thy  steps  will  guided  be,  and  guided  right. 

Hard!     Well,  and  what  of  that? 
Didst  fancy  life  one  summer  holiday, 
With  lessons  none  to  learn,  and  naught  but  play? 
Go,  get  thee  to  thy  task!      Conquer  or  die! 
It  must  be  learned!      Learn  it,  then,  patiently. 

No  help?     Nay,   'tis  not  so! 
Though  human  help  be  far,  thy  God  is  nigh; 
Who  feeds  the  ravens,  hears  His  children  cry. 
He's  near  thee,  whereso'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
And  He  will  guide  thee,  light  thee,  help  thee  home. 


3,6  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

THE    ELEVENTH    HOUR. 


ANNA    L.    RUTH. 

WHIST,  sir!     Would  ye  plaze  to  speak  aisy, 
And  sit  ye  down  there  by  the  dure? 
She  sleeps,  sir,  so  light  and  so  restless, 

She  hears  every  step  on  the  flure. 
What  ails  her?     God  knows!     She's  been  weakly 

For  months,  and  the  heat  dhrives  her  wild; 
The  summer  has  wasted  and  worn  her 
Till  she's  only  the  ghost  of  a  child. 

All  I  have?     Yes,  she  is,  and  God  help  me! 

I'd  three  little  darlints  beside, 
As  purty  as  iver  ye  see,  sir, 

But  wan  by  wan  dhrooped  like,  and  died. 
What  was  it  that  tuk  them,  ye're  askin'  ? 

Why,  poverty,  shure,  and  no  doubt ; 
They  perished  for  food  and  fresh  air,  sir, 

Like  flowers  dhried  up  in  a  drought. 

'Twas  dhreadful  to  lose  them?     Ah,  was  it! 

It  seemed  like  my  heart-sthrings  would  break! 
Rut  there's  days  whin  wid  want  and  wid  sorrow, 

I'm  thankful  they're  gone,  for  their  sake. 
Their  father?     Well,  sir,  saints  forgive  me! 

It's  a  foul  tongue  that  lowers  its  own; 
But  what  wid  the  sthrikes  and  the  liquor, 

I'd  betther  be  sthrugglin'  alone. 

Do  I  want  to  kape  this  wan?     The  darlint! 

The  last  and  the  darest  of  all! 
Shure  you're  niver  a  father  yourself,  sir, 

Or  ye  wouldn't  be  askin'  at  all. 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS.  37 

What  is  that?       Milk  and  food  for  the  baby ! 

A  docther  and  medicine  free! 
You're  huntin'  out  all  the  sick  children, 

An'  poor,  toilin'  mothers,  like  me! 

God  bless  you  and  thim  that  have  sent  you! 

A  new  life  you've  given  me,  so. 
Shure,  sir,  won't  you  look  in  the  cradle 

At  the  colleen  you've  saved,  'fore' you  go? 
O  mother  o'  mercies!   have  pity! 

O  darlint,  why  couldn't  you  wait! 
Dead!  dead!   an'  the  help  in  the  dureway! 

Too  late!   O  my  baby!   Too  late! 


UP-HILL. 


CHRISTINA    G.    ROSSETTI. 


DOES  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way? 
Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 


38  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


JUDGE    NOT. 

HOW  do  we  know  what  hearts  have  sin  ? 
How  do  we  know  ? 
Many  like  sepulchres,  are  foul  within 

Whose  outward  garb  is  spotless  as  the  snow, 
And  many  may  be  pure  we  think  not  so. 
How  near  to  God  the  souls  of  such  have  been, 
What  mercies  secret  penitence  may  win — 
How  do  we  know? 

How  can  we  tell  who  sinneth  more  than  we? 

Who  can  tell? 
We  think  our  brother  walketh  guiltily, 

Judging  him  in  self-righteousness.      Ah,  well! 
Perhaps  had  we  been  driven  through  the  hell 
Of  his  untold  temptations,  less  upright  we 
In  our  daily  walk  might  be  than  he — 
How  can  we  tell  ? 

Dare  we  condemn  the  ills  that  others  do? 

Dare  we  condemn  ? 
Their  strength  is  small,  their  trials  not  a  few, 
The  tide  of  wrong  is  difficult  to  stem, 
And  if  to  us  more  clearly  than  to  them 
Is  given  knowledge  of  the  good  and  true, 
More  do  they  need  our  help,  and  pity,  too — 
Dare  we  condemn  ? 


FAVORITE   SELECTIONS.  39 

God  help  us  all,  and  lead  us  day  by  day, 

God  help  us  all ! 
We  cannot  walk  alone  the  perfect  way, 

Evil  allures  us,  tempts  us,  and  we  fall — 
We  are  but  human,  and  our  power  is  small; 
Not  one  of  us  may  boast,  and  not  a  day 
Rolls  o'er  our  heads  but  each  hath  need  to  say, 
God  bless  us  all ! 


UNFULFILLED. 


T  "WE'LL  read  that  book,  we'll  sing  that  song, 
V  V       But  when?     Oh,  when  the  days  are  long; 
When  thoughts  are  free,  and  voices  clear; 
Some  happy  time  within  the  year — 
The  days  troop  by  with  noiseless  tread, 
The  song  unsung;  the  book  unread. 

We'll  see  that  friend,  and  make  him  feel 
The  weight  of  friendship,  true  as  steel; 
Some  flower  of  sympathy  bestow — 
But  time  sweeps  on  with  steady  flow, 
Until  with  quick,  reproachful  tear,, 
We  lay  our  flowers  upon  his  bier. 

And  still  we  walk  the  desert  sands, 

And  still  with  trifles  fill  our  hands, 

While  ever,  just  beyond  our  reach, 

A  fairer  purpose  shows  to  each. 

The  deeds  we  have  not  done,  but  willed, 

Remain  to  haunt  us — unfulfilled. 


4°  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 


TRYING  TO  GET  EVEN  DON'T  PAY. 

SOME  people's  shoulders  are  loaded  with  chips, 
They're  looking  for  insults  and  slights, 
And  sometimes  the  days  seem  almost  too  short, 

And  then  they  lie  awake  nights 
Thinking  and  planning  what  they  will  do, 

And  how  they'll  get  even  with  those 
Who  thoughtlessly  knock  from  their  shoulders  a  chip, 
Or  carelessly  step  on  their  toes. 

All  of  which  leads  me  to  say 
That  for  trouble  and  grief, 
It's  my  honest  belief 
Trying  to  get  even  don't  pay. 

I  know  it  is  natural  to  hit  people  back, 
And  give  them  as  good  as  they  send ; 
And  also  I  know  that  wrangling  and  strife 

Must  some  time  come  to  an  end. 
It's  better,  by  far,  to  put  up  with  a  grief 

And  appear  to  submit  to  a  wrong, 
Than  try  to  "get  even,"  the  way  of  the  world, 
And  most  of  us  go  with  the  throng. 

All  of  which  leads  me  to  say 
That  for  trouble  and  grief, 
It's  my  honest  belief 
Trying  to  get  even  don't  pay. 

As  the  world  is  made  up  there's  very  few  saints, 
And  there's  very  few  more  to  be  born;- 

The  average  man  looks  out  for  himself 
All  day  from  the  earliest  morn. 


FA  VO KITE    SELECTIONS.  4 1 

Trying  to  "get  even  "  is  a  natural  trait 
Since  the  time  of  "  Old  Adam's  "  fall, 
But  experience  shows,  as  every  one  knows, 
That  "honey"  is  cheaper  than  "gall." 
All  of  which  leads  me  to  say 
That  for  trouble  and  grief, 
It's  my  honest  belief 
Trying  to  get  even  don't  pay. 


A    CHILD'S    THOUGHT    OF    GOD. 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 


THEY  say  that  God  lives  very  high, 
But  if  you  look  above  the  pines 
You  cannot  see  our  God  ;  and  why  ? 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines 
You  never  see  Him  in  the  gold, 
Thouyh  from  Him  all  that  glory  shines. 

God  is  so  good,  He  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  His  face — 
Like  secrets  kept,  for  love,  untold. 

But  still  I  feel  that  His  embrace 

Slides  down  by  thrills,  through  all  things  made, 
Through  sight  and  sound  of  every  place. 

As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 

On  my  shut  lids  her  kisses'  pressure, 
Half-waking  me  at  night,  and  said, 

"Who  kissed  you  through  the  dark,  dear  guesser? 


42  JULIA    AND   ANNIE    THOMAS' 


TIRED. 


I  AM  tired.      Heart  and  feet 
Turn  from  busy  mart  and  street. 
I  am  tired;   rest  is  sweet. 

I  am  tired.      I  have  played 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  shade; 
I  have  seen  the  flowers  fade. 

I  am  tired.      I  have  had 
What  has  made  my  spirit  glad, 
What  has  made  my  spirit  sad. 

I  am  tired.      Loss  and  gain, 
Golden  sheaves  and  scattered  grain, 
Day  has  not  been  spent  in  vain. 

I  am  tired.      Eventide 
Bids  me  lay  my  cares  aside, 
Bids  me  in  my  hopes  abide. 

I  am  tired.      God  is  near, 
Let  me  sleep  without  a  fear, 
Let  me  die  without  a  tear. 

I  am  tired.      I  would  rest 
As  the  bird  within  its  nest; 
I  am  tired.        Home  is  best. 


FAVORITE   SELECTIONS.  43 


AFTER    ELECTION. 

ANNIE    THOMAS. 

COURAGE!   Fight,  on  ye  valiant  ones, 
Though  weary,  faint  and  few. 
Have  patience!     Soon  the  right  will  gain 
God  is  the  Leader  true. 

While  brothers  all  around  us  die 

The  battle  ne'er  give  o'er; 
While  sisters'  anguished  sobs  are  heard 

Be  stronger  than  before. 

While  children — naked,  hungry,  weak, 

Their  pleading  voices  raise; 
While  wives  with  broken  hearts  and  hopes 

No  longer  upward  gaze; 

While  man  on  level  with  the  brute 
Is  brought  by  liquor's  power, 

Robbed  of  hi.;  manhood,  strength  and  will- 
Disgrace  his  children's  dower; 

While  heartless,  selfish  men  deal  out 
The  poisonous,  murderous  drink, 

Encircled  by  the  law's  broad  arm 
But  held  just  on  the  brink; 

While  laws  are  under  rum's  control 
And  men  are  bought  and  sold— 

Hold  high  the  banner  of  the  free, 
Press  onward,  brave  and  bold! 


44  JULIA    A. YD    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Let  naught  thy  progress  interpose; 

Lay  party  interests  by; 
For  principle,  for  right,  for  God, 

Strike!  fight!   conquer!   or  die. 


LITTLE    ROCKET'S    CHRISTMAS. 

VANDYKE    BROWN. 


I'LL  tell  you  how  the  Christmas  came 
To  Rocket — no,  you  never  met  him, 
That  is,  you  never  knew  his  name, 

Although  'tis  possible  you've  let  him 
Display  his  skill  upon  your  shoes; 
A  boot-black — arab,  if  you  choose. 

And  who  was  Rocket  ?     Well,  an  urchin, 
A  gamin,  dirty,  torn,  and  tattered, 

Whose  chief  est  pleasure  was  to  perch  in 
The  Bowery  gallery;  there  it  mattered 

But  little  what  the  play  might  be — 

Broad  farce  or  point-lace  comedy — 

He  meted  out  his  just  applause 

By  rigid,  fixed,  and  proper  laws. 

A  father  once  he  had,  no  doubt, 

A  mother  on  the  Island  staying, 
Which  left  him  free  to  knock  about 

And  gratify  a  taste  for  straying. 
An  ash-box  served  him  for  a  bed — 

As  good,  at  least,  as  Moses'  rushes— 
And  for  his  daily  meat  and  bread, 

He  earned  them  with  his  box  and  brushes. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  45 

An  arab  of  the  city's  slums, 

With  ready  tongue  and  empty  pocket, 
Unaided  left  to  solve  life's  sums, 

But  plucky  always — that  was  Rocket! 
'Twas  Christmas  eve,  and  all  the  day 

The  snow  had  fallen  fine  and  fast; 
In  banks  and  drifted  heaps  it  lay 

Along  the  streets.      A  piercing  blast 
Blew  cuttingly.      The  storm  was  past, 
And  now  the  stars  looked  coldly  down 
Upon  the  snow-enshrouded  town. 
Ah,  well  it  is  if  Christmas  brings 
Good-will  and  peace  which  poet  sings! 
How  full  are  all  the  streets  to-night 
With  happy  faces,  flushed  and  bright! 
For  all  the  world  is  glad  to-night! 
All,  did  I  say?     Ah,  no,  not  all, 
For  sorrow  throws  on  some  its  pall. 


But  Rocket?     On  this  Christmas  eve 

You  might  have  seen  him  standing  where 
The  city's  streets  so  interweave 

They  form  that  somewhat  famous  square 
Called  Printing  House.      His  face  was  bright, 

And  at  this  gala,  festive  season 
You  could  not  find  a  heart  more  light — 

I'll  tell  you  in  a  word  the  reason: 
By  dint  of  patient  toil  in  shining 

Patrician  shoes  and  Wall  Street  boots, 
He  had  within  his  jacket's  lining 

A  dollar  and  a  half — the  fruits 
Of  pinching,  saving,  and  a  trial 
Of  really  Spartan  self-denial. 


46  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    Til 0 A/ AS' 

That  dollar  and  a  half  was  more 
Than  Rocket  ever  owned  before. 
A  princely  fortune,  so  he  thought, 

And  with  those  hoarded  dimes  and  nickels 
What  Christmas  pleasures  may  be  bought! 

A  dollar  and  a  half!     It  tickles 
The  boy  to  say  it  over,  musing 
Upon  the  money's  proper  using; 
"I'll  go  a  gobbler,  leg  and  breast, 

With  cranberry  sauce  and  fixin's  nice, 
And  pie,  mince  pie,  the  very  best, 

And  puddin' — say  a  double  slice! 
And  then  to  doughnuts  how  I'll  freeze; 
With  coffee — guess  that  ere's  the  cheese! 
And  after  grub  I'll  go  to  see 
The  'Seven  Goblins  of  Dundee.' 
If  this  yere  Christmas  ain't  a  buster, 
I'll  let  yer  rip  my  Sunday  duster!" 

So  Rocket  mused  as  he  hurried  along, 

Clutching  his  money  with  grasp  yet  tighter, 
And  humming  the  air  of  a  rollicking  song, 

With  a  heart  as  light  as  his  clothes — or  lighter. 
Through  Centre  Street  he  makes  his  way, 

When,  just  as  he  turns  the  corner  at  Pearl, 
He  hears  a  voice  cry  out  in  dismay, 

And  sees  before  him  a  slender  girl, 
As  ragged  and  tattered  in  dress  as  he, 
With  hand  stretched  forth  for  charity. 

In  the  street-light's  fitful  and  flickering  glare 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  pale,  pinched  face- 
So  gaunt  and  wasted,  yet  strangely  fair 

With  a  lingering  touch  of  childhood's  grace 


FA  VOKITE    SELECTIONS.  47 

On  her  delicate  features.      Her  head  was  bare 
And  over  her  shoulders  disordered  there  hung 

A  mass  of  tangled,  nut-brown  hair. 

In  misery  old  as  in  years  she  was  young, 

She  gazed  in  his  face.      And,  oh!  for  the  eyes — 

The  big,  blue,  sorrowful,  hungry  eyes — 

That  were  fixed  in  a  desperate,  frightened  stare. 


Hundreds  have  jostled  her  by  to-night — 

The  rich,  the  great,  the  good,  and  the  wise, 
Hurrying  on  to  the  warmth  and  light 
Of  happy  homes — they  have  jostled  her  by, 
And  the  only  one  who  has  heard  her  cry, 
Or,  hearing,  has  felt  his  heartstrings  stirred, 
Is  Rocket — this  youngster  of  coarser  clay, 
This  gamin,  who  never  so  much  as  heard 
The  beautiful  story  of  Him  who  lay 
In  the  manger  of  old  on  Christmas  day! 

With  artless  pathos  and  simple  speech, 
Sho  stands  and  tells  him  her  pitiful  tale; 

She  tells  of  the  terrible  battle  for  bread, 
Tells  of  a  father  brutal  with  crime, 

Tells  of  a  mother  lying  dead, 

At  this,  the  gala  Christmas-time; 

Then  adds,  gazing  up  at  the  starlit  sky, 

"  I'm  hungry  and  cold,  and  I  wish  I  could  die." 

What  is  it  trickles  down  the  cheek 

Of  Rocket — can  it  be  a  tear? 
He  stands  and  stares,  but  does  not  speak; 

He  thinks  again  of  that  good  cheer 


4$  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Which  Christmas  was  to  bring;  he  sees 

Visions  of  turkey,  steaming  pies, 
The  play-bill — then,  in  place  of  these 

The  girl's  beseeching,  hungry  eyes; 
One  mighty  effort,  gulping  down 

The  disappointment  in  his  breast, 
A  quivering  of  the  lip,  a  frown, 

And  then,  while  pity  pleads  her  best,' 
He  snatches  forth  his  cherished  hoard, 
And  gives  it  to  her  like  a  lord! 


"  Here,  freeze  to  that;  I'm  flush,  yer  see, 
And  then  you  needs  it  more  'an  me!  " 
With  that  he  turns  and  walks  away, 
So  fast  the  girl  can  nothing  say, 
So  fast  he  does  not  hear  the  prayer 
That  sanctifies  the  winter  air. 
But  He  who  blessed  the  widow's  mite 
Looked  down  and  smiled  upon  the  sight. 

No  feast  of  steaming  pies  or  turkey, 

No  ticket  for  the  matinee, 
All  drear  and  desolate  and  murky, 

In  truth,  a  very  dismal  day. 
With  dinner  on  a  crust  of  bread, 

And  not  a  penny  in  his  pocket, 
A  friendly  ash-box  for  a  bed — 

Thus  came  the  Christmas  day  to  Rocket, 
And  yet — and  here's  the  strangest  thing — 

As  best  befits  the  festive  season, 
The  boy  was  happy  as  a  king — 

I  wonder  can  you  guess  the  reason  ? 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS.  49 

GRADATIM. 

J.    G.    HOLLAND. 


HEAVEN 
But  we 


EAVEN  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound; 
re,  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 


From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  we  mount  to  the  summit  round  by  round. 

I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true; 
That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God 
Lifting  the  soul  from  the  common  sod 

To  a  purer  air  and  a  broader  view. 

We  rise  by  things  that  are  under  our  feet: 

By  what  we  have  mastered  of  good  and  gain; 
By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 

And  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 
When  the  morning  calls  us  to  life  and  light; 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and  ere  the  night 

Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray, 

And  we  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things, 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay. 

Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  the  men! 
We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way — 
We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and  pray; 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 
4 


5°  JULIA    AND    AXXIE     THOMAS' 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls; 
But  the  dreams  depart,  and  the  vision  falls, 

And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  the  summit  round  bv  round. 


JOHN'S    MISTAKE. 


MOLLY    BRANDE. 

WITH  sombre  mien  and  thought-beclouded  brow, 
He  laid  aside  the  paper  that  ere  now 
Had  solely  his  attention  occupied. 
And  then  with  trembling  hand  he  brushed  aside 
The  single  tear,  that  was  so  very  small 
One  well  might  doubt  its  presence  there  at  all. 

"What  is  it,  John?"   inquired  his  anxious  wife, 
The  partner  of  his  joys  and  woes  through  life; 
"What  gloomy  passage  was  it  that  you  read? 
Our  friends,  my  dear — ah!   surely,  none  are  dead? 
Quick!  speak!   relieve  my  heart  of  painful  doubt! 
What  is  it  that  you  feel  so  sad  about  ? '' 

"Wife,"  he  replied,  "I  will  confide  in  thee. 
Before  you  saw  and  fell  in  love  with  me, 
A  score  of  maidens,  first  and  last,  I  think, 
Had  also  fallen  over  the  same  brink  ; 
And  one  there  was,  whose  name  to-night  I  see 
Among  the  married.      Once  she  loved  but  me. 


FAVORITE   SELECTIONS.  51 

"  But  as  I  could  not  wed  with  more  than  one; 
I  married  you,  and  Kate  was  left  alone. 
And  I  am  thinking  now  of  all  the  years 
In  store  for  her,  all  fraught  with  bitter  tears; 
For  women,  dear,  do  not  so  soon  forget, 
And  in  her  heart,  no  doubt,  she  loves  me  yet. 

"  And  now  I  learn  that  she,  through  pique  or  spite, 
Was  married  to  Tom  Jones  on  yesternight — 
As  if  Tom  Jones  could  ever  me  replace 
Or  from  her  heart  her  love  for  me  erase! 
Of  course,  I  feel  myself  somewhat  to  blame 
That  Kate  so  suddenly  should  change  her  name. 

Then,  with  a  merry  laugh,  his  wife  replied, 
"O  John,  do  cease!  "  then  laughed  until  she  cried, 
Then  cried  until  again  she  laughed  with  glee; 
While   John,  quite    mystified,  declared  that  he 
"  Had  ne'er  beheld  such  conduct  in  his  wife, 
And  hoped  he  never  would  again  through  life." 

"  But,  John!"  she  cried,  "do  listen  while  I  tell 

How  long  Kate  loved  you,  and — O  my!   how  well. 

She  and  I,  you  know,  were  girls  together, 

And  always  told  our  secrets  to  each  other; 

And  once  she  told  me,  John,  that  you  in  vain 

Had  sought  her  hand  " — and  then  she  laughed  again. 

"And,  John,  she  said — but  don't  be  angry,  dear — 
That  she  refused  you,  and  expressed  a  fear 
That  you  some  act  of  rashness  would  commit, 
And  begged  me  love  you  just  a  little  bit. 
And  so  I  tried;  you  know  the  sequel,  dear: 
You  turned  from  her  to  me;   'twas  very  queer." 


5-2  JULIA    AXD    AXXIE    THOMAS' 

John  bit  his  lip  in  ill-concealed  distaste, 

And  something  murmured  low  of  "youth,"  and  "haste,' 

And  "boyish  fancies"  and  "a  girl's  conceit," 

Too  indistinctly  uttered  to  repeat. 

But  you  and  I,  of  course,  with  half  a  look, 

See  that  John  wore  his  boot  on  the  wrong  foot. 

And  Mrs.  John,  within  her  merry  breast, 
Regarded  John's  mistake  too  good  a  jest 
To  keep.      So  after  many  an  earnest  charge 
That  I  should  keep  it  from  the  world  at  large, 
She  told  it  me;  but  I,  being  rather  weak, 
Have  found  the  secret  far  too  strong  to  keep. 


GUILTY   OR    XOT    GUILTY? 

SHE  stood  at  the  bar  of  justice, 
A  creature  wan  and  wild, 
In  form  too  small  for  a  woman, 

In  features  too  old  for  a  child; 
For  a  look  so  worn  and  pathetic 

Was  stamped  on  her  pale  young  face, 
It  seemed  long  years  of  suffering 
Must  have  left  that  silent  trace. 

"  Your  name  ?  "  said  the  judge,  as  he  eyed  he 

With  kindly  look  yet  keen, 
"Is  Mary  McGuire,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"  And  your  age?  "     "  I  am  turned  fifteen.  " 
"Well,  Mary,"  and  then  from  a  paper 

He  slowly  and  gravely  read, 
"You  are  charged  here — I  am  sorry  to  say  it- 

With  stealing  three  loaves  of  bread. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  S3 

"You  look  not  like  an  offender, 

And  I  hope  that  you  can  show 
The  charge  to  be  false.      Now,  tell  me, 

Are  you  guilty  of  this  or  no?" 
A  passionate  burst  of  weeping 

Was  at  first  her  sole  reply, 
But  she  dried  her  eyes  in  a  moment, 

And  looked  in  the  judge's  eye. 

"I  will  tell  you  just  how  it  was,  sir: 

My  father  and  mother  are  dead, 
And  my  little  brother  and  sisters 

Were  hungry  and  asked  me  for  bread. 
At  first  I  earned  it  for  them 

By  working  hard  all  day, 
But  somehow  times  were  bad,  sir, 

And  the  work  all  fell  away. 

"  I  could  get  no  more  employment; 

The  weather  was  bitter  cold; 
The  young  ones  cried  and  shivered — 

Little  Johnny's  but  four  years  old. 
So  what  was  I  to  do,  sir? 

I  am  guilty,  but  do  not  condemn; 
I  took — oh,  was  it  stealing? — 

The  bread  to  give  to  them." 

Every  man  in  the  court-room — ■' 

Graybeard  and  thoughtless  youth — 
Knew,  as  he  looked  upon  her, 

That  the  prisoner  spoke  the  truth. 
Out  from  their  pockets  came  kerchiefs, 

Out  from  their  eyes  sprang  tears, 
And  out  from  their  old  faded  wallets 

Treasures  hoarded  for  years. 


54  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

The  judge's  face  was  a  study — 

The  strangest  you  ever  saw, 
And  he  cleared  his  throat  and  murmured 

Something  about  the  law. 
For  one  so  learned  in  such  matters, 

So  wise  in  dealing  with  men, 
He  seemed,  on  a  simple  question, 

Sorely  puzzled  just  then. 

But  no  one  blamed  him  or  wondered 

When  at  last  these  words  they  heard: 
"The  sentence  of  this  young  prisoner 

Is,  for  the  present,  deferred." 
And  no  one  blamed  him  or  wondered 

When  he  went  to  her  and  smiled, 
And  tenderly  led  from  the  court-room 

Mary,  the  "guilty"  child. 


GIVE    US   MEN. 


GOD  give  us  men;  a  time  like  this  demands 
Great  hearts,  strong  minds,  true  faith  and  ready  hands. 
Men  whom  the  lust  of  office  cannot  kill; 
Men  whom  the  spoils  of  office  cannot  buy; 
Men  who  possess  opinions  and  will; 
Men  who  love  honor;  men  who  will  not  lie; 
Men  who  can  stand  before  a  demagogue, 
And  brave  his  treacherous  flatteries  without  winking; 
Tall  men,  sunburnt,  who  live  above  the  fog, 
In  public  duty  and  in  private  thinking; 
For  while  the  rabble,  with  its  thumb-worn  creeds, 
Its  large  professions,  and  its  little  deeds, 
Mingle  in  selfish  strife — lo!   Freedom  weeps, 
Wrong  rules  the  land,  and  waiting  Justice  sleeps. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  55 


KATIE'S    ANSWER. 


OCH,  Katie's  a  rogue,  it  is  thrue; 
But  her  eyes,  like  the  sky,  are  so  blue, 
An'  her  dimples  so  swate, 
An'  her  ankles  so  nate, 
She  dazed  an'  she  bothered  me,  too. 

Till  one  mornin'  we  wint  for  a  ride; 
Whin,  demure  as  a  bride,  by  my  side 

The  darlint  she  sat, 

Wid  the  wickedest  hat 
'Neath  purty  girl's  chin  iver  tied. 

An'  my  heart,  arrah,  thin  how  it  bate! 
For  my  Kate  looked  so  temptin'  an'  swate, 

Wid  cheeks  like  the  roses 

An'  all  the  red  posies 
That  grow  in  her  garden  so  nate. 

But  I  sat  just  as  mute  as  the  dead 
Till  she  said,  wid  a  toss  of  her  head, 

"If  I'd  known  that  to-day 

Ye'd  have  nothin'  to  say, 
I'd  have  gone  wid  my  cousin  instead." 

Thin  I  felt  myself  grow  very  bold; 
For  I  knew  she'd  not  scold  if  I  told 

Uv  the  love  in  my  heart 

That  would  niver  depart 
Though  I  lived  to  be  wrinkled  an'  old. 


5 6  JULIA    AND   ANNIE     THOMAS' 

An'  I  said,  "  If  I  dared  to  do  so, 
I'd  lit  go  uv  the  baste  an'  I'd  throw 

Both  arms  round  your  waist, 

An'  be  stalin'a  taste 
Uv  them  lips  that  are  coaxin'  me  so." 

Thin  she  blushed  a  more  illegant  red 
As  she  said,  without  raisin'  her  head 
An'  her  eyes  lookin'  down 
'Neath  her  lashes  so  brown, 
"Would  ye  like  me  to  drive,  Misther  Ted? 


A    PIG    IN    THE   FENCE. 


DIDST  never  observe  when  a  pig  in  the  fence 
Sends  forth  his  most  pitiful  shout, 
How  all  of  his  neighbors  betake  themselves  thence 

To  punish  him  ere  he  gets  out? 
What  a  hubbub  they  raise,  so  that  others  afar 

May  know  his  condition,  and  hence 
Come  running  to  join  them  in  adding  a  scar 
To  the  pig  that  is  fast  in  the  fence? 

Well,  swine  are  not  all  of  the  creatures  that  be, 

Who  find  themselves  sticking  between 
The  rails  of  the  fence,  and  who  strive  to  get  free, 

While  the  world  is  still  shoving  them  in; 
Who  find  that  the  favor  they  meet  with  depends 

Not  on  worth,  but  on  dollars  and  cents, 
And  that  'tis  but  few  who  will  prove  themselves  friends 

To  the  pig  that  is  fast  ui  the  fence. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  57 

"BOSE." 

A  WESTERN    FARMER'S    STORY. 
EMELINE    SHERMAN    SMITH. 

YOU  love  your  clog?     Indeed,  sir,  \vc  do; 
I'll  tell  you  why,  and  the  tale  is  true: 
Ten  years  ago,  when  we  settled  out  here, 
All  the  country  being  wild  and  drear, 
I  had  to  work  both  early  and  late 
To  keep  my  farm  matters  snug  and  straight. 
My  dear  young  wife  was  patient  and  good, 
She  helped  me  all  she  possibly  could 
By  keeping  the  house  so  neat  and  fair — 
'Twas  rest  and  comfort  to  enter  there. 
We  had  but  one  child,  a  baby  boy; 
He  helped  me,  too,  he  was  such  a  joy. 
No  care  was  heavy,  no  toil  severe, 
With  such  a  bright  little  darling  near. 

One  more  in  the  family,  good  old  Bose! 
Look  at  him  now,  sir!   he  just  as  well  knows 
As  I  do  myself  what  I'm  going  to  say, 
Though  he  meekly  turns  and  walks  away, 
Making  believe  he  don't  want  to  hear 
The  praise  he's  enjoyed  this  many  a  year. 
Dogs  are  like  men:   they  don't  like  to  show 
Pride  in  good  deeds,  but  they  have  it,  you  know. 

AVhat  was  I  saying?     Oh!  ten  years  ago, 
Though  our  home  was  happy  our  fortunes  were  low; 
And  the  only  nurse  or  help  that  we  had 
To  watch  and  take  care  of  our  baby  lad 


58  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Was  this  faithful  dog.      If  the  child  was  asleep, 
The  knowing  creature  would  cautiously  creep 
Close  to  the  cradle,  and  there  he  would  lie 
Still  as  a  statue,  but  keeping  his  eye — 
As  a  sentry  on  duty  keeps  his  place — 
All  the  while  on  the  baby's  face; 
And  the  moment  he  saw  a  lid  unclose, 
Up  he  would  spring,  this  frolicsome  Bose! 
Rush  to  the  cradle,  and  kiss  the  boy, 
Who'd  hug  his  playmate  and  crow  for  joy. 

To  leave  our  darling  we  had  no  fear, 
So  long  as  this  wise  protector  was  near; 
And  often  my  wife,  in  her  kindly  thought, 
Out  to  the  fields  in  the  harvest-time  brought 
My  dinner,  to  save  me  a  lonesome  walk, 
And  thus  give  me  chance  for  a  nice  little  talk. 

One  day,  when  the  weather  was  dry  and  hot, 
I  was  working  down  in  a  distant  lot, 
And  she  came  as  usual  to  bring  my  food, 
Which  seemed  to  taste  uncommonly  good; 
And  I  kept  her,  after  the  meal  was  o'er. 
Chatting  some  twenty  minutes  or  more; 
When  all  at  once  on  the  sultry  air 
Came  something  that  woke  a  cry  of  despair. 

"Our  house  is  on  fire!     Great  heaven!   the  child! 

And  shrieking  this  in  an  accent  wild, 

She  darted  off  with  a  step  so  fleet 

I  scarce  could  follow  her  flying  feet. 

The  way  was  rough,  and  never  before 

Did  it  seem  so  far  to  our  cottage  door; 


FA  J  r01U  7  E    SELE  C  TIONS.  5  9 

And  when  at  last  anear  it  we  came 

The  dwelling  was  all  one  sheet  of  flame! 

And  wife,  in  her  horror  and  dread  amaze, 

Was  about  to  rush  right  into  the  blaze, 

But  I  held  her  back — then  she  swooned  away, 

And  like  one  that  was  dead  in  my  arms  she  lay. 

Just  then  to  my  ear  came  a  joyful  sound, 

And  looking  in  sudden  wonder  around 

I  saw — -what  shines  in  my  memory  yet — 

A  pretty  picture  I  cannot  forget : 

A  lump  of  a  baby  all  in  white, 

Clapping  its  chubby  hands  with  delight; 

And  frisking  about  the  grassy  nest 

Where  he'd  put  the  birdie  so  safely  to  rest, 

Was  the  proudest  and  happiest  dog  that  you 

Or  any  other  mortal  could  view. 

He  leaped,  he  barked,  nay,  talked — in  his  way — 

For  his  capers,  his  eyes,  and  his  tail  seemed  to  say, 

"Look  at  the  baby!   look  at  the  dear! 

Isn't  he  safe  and  in  clover  here  V 

Safe,  indeed!   why,  if  you'll  believe — 
And  where  would  be  the  use  to  deceive  ? — 
The  child  was  placed  at  the  point  whence  came 
The  wind,  do  you  see?     No  breath  of  flame. 
No  spark  or  cinder  could  even  reach 
The  hem  of  his  garment!      Now,  who  could  teach 
A  poor  dumb  creature  such  wisdom  as  this? 
Come  here,  old  fellow,  and  give  us  a  kiss: 

./ 

Excuse  me,  sir;  but  whenever  I  tell 

This  curious  story — somehow — well, 


60  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

Just  here  I  break  down.      For  many  a  day 

After  this  life  seemed  hard,  I  must  say; 

But  we  didn't  give  up,  for  still  we  were  blest 

With  health  and  brave  hearts;  besides,  we  possessed 

The  boy  and  the  dog,  so  we  didn't  forget 

To  be  thankful  for  all  that  was  spared  to  us  yet. 

We  worked  hard  and  prospered,  as  most  people  do 

When  to  duty  and  labor  and  love  they  are  true. 

To-day  with  my  fortune  I'm  fully  content; 

I've  a  nice  home  once  more — owe  no  man  a  cent; 

Wife  looks  like  a  girl,  and  as  to  our  lad, 

He's  the  brightest  and  best  that  parents  e'er  had. 

He  does  credit  to  us  and  credit  to  Bose — 

'Tisn't  every  dog  that  sagaciously  knows 

What  child  is  worth  saving.     He  knew.     Now  you  see 

Why  the  creature's  so  dear  to  wife  and  to  me. 


THE    WEDDING    FEE. 

R.    M.    STREETER. 

ONE  morning,  fifty  years  ago, 
When  apple-trees  were  white  with  snow 
Of  fragrant  blossoms,  and  the  air 
Was  spellbound  with  the  perfume  rare — 
Upon  a  farm-horse,  large  and  lean 

And  lazy  with  its  double  load, 
A  sun-brown  youth  and  maid  were  seen 
Jogging  along  the  winding  road. 

Blue  were  the  arches  of  the  skies, 
But  bluer  were  that  maiden's  eyes! 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  6i 

The  dew-drops  on  the  grass  were  bright, 
But  brighter  was  the  loving   light 
That  sparkled  'neath  each  long-fringed  lid 
Where  those  bright  eyes  of  blue  were  hid. 
Adown  the  shoulders,  brown  and  bare, 
Rolled  the  soft  waves  of  golden  hair, 
Where,  almost  strangled  with  the  spray, 
The  sun,  a  willing  sufferer,  lay. 

It  was  the  fairest  sight,  I  ween, 
That  the  young  man  had  ever  seen, 
And  with  his  features  all  aglow, 
The  happy  fellow  told  her  so. 
And  she,  without  the  least  surprise, 
Looked  on  him  with  those  heavenly  eyes- 
Saw  underneath  that  shade  of  tan 
The  handsome  features  of  a  man, 
And  with  a  joy  but  rarely  known, 
She  drew  that  dear  face  to  her  own, 
And  by  that  bridal  bonnet  hid — 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  she  did. 

So  on  they  ride,  until  among 

The  new-born  leaves,  with  dew-drops  hung. 

The  parsonage,  arrayed  in  white, 

Peers  out — a  more  than  welcome  sight. 

Then,  with  a  cloud  upon  his  face, 
"What  shall  we  do,"  he  turned  to  say, 
"  Should  he  refuse  to  take  his  pay 

From  what  is  in  the  pillow-case?  " 
And,  glancing  down,  his  eyes  surveyed 
The  pillow-case  before  him  laid, 
Whose  contents,  reaching  to  its  hem, 
Might  purchase  endless  joys  for  them. 


Oz  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

The  maiden  answers,  "  Let  us  wait  ; 

To  burrow  trouble,  where's  the  need?  ' 
Then  at  the  parson's  squeaking  gate 

Halted  the  more  than  willing  steed; 
Down  from  his  horse  the  bridegroom  sprung, 
The  latchless  gate  behind  him  swung; 
The  knocker  of  that  startled  door, 
Struck  as  it  never  was  before, 

Brought  the  whole  household,  pale  with  fright; 
And  there,  with  blushes  on  his  cheek, 
So  bashful  he  could  hardly  speak, 

The  farmer  met  their  wondering  sight. 

The  groom  goes  in,  his  errand  tells, 

And  as  the  parson  nods,  he  leans 
Far  o'er  the  window-sill  and  yells. 

"Come  in!      He  says  he'll  take  the  beans!" 
Oh,  how  she  jumped!   with  one  glad  bound 
She  and  the  be^mbag  reached  the  ground, 
Then,  clasping  with  each  dimpled  arm 
The  precious  product  of  the  farm. 
She  bears  it  through  the  open  door. 
And  down  upon  the  parlor  floor 
Humps  the  best  beans  vines  ever  bore. 
Ah,  happy  were  their  songs  that  day 
When,  man  and  wife,  they  rode  away; 
But  happier  this  chorus  still 

Which  echoed  through  those  woodland  scenes: 
"God  bless  the  priest  of  Watsonville! 

God  bless  the  man  who  took  the  beans'." 


FA  voiu 1  '/■:  s/-:  l  l  c  i  ioa  rs.  63 

LIFE    LEAVEvS. 

JOAQUIN    MILLER. 

IS  it  worth  while  that  we  jostle  a  brother 
Bearing  his  load  on  the  rough  road  of  life? 
Is  it  worth  while  that  we  jeer  at  each  other 

In  blackness  of  heart?  that  we  war  to  the  knife? 
God  pity  us  all  in  our  pitiful  strife! 

God  pity  us  all  as  we  jostle  each  other! 

God  pardon  us  all  for  the  triumphs  we  feel 
When  a  fellow  goes  down  'neath  his  load  on  the  heather, 

Pierced  to  the  heart — words  are  keener  than  steel, 

And  mightier  far  for  woe  or  for  weal. 

Were  it  not  well  in  this  brief  little  journey 

On  over  the  isthmus,  down  into  the  tide, 
We  give  him  a  fish  instead  of  a  serpent, 

Ere  folding  the  hands  to  be  and  abide 

Forever  and  aye  in  dust  at  his  side? 

Look  at  the  roses  saluting  each  other; 

Look  at  the  herds  all  at  peace  on  the  plain — 
Man  and  man  only  makes  war  on  his  brother, 

And  laughs  in  his  heart  at  his  peril  and  pain; 

Shamed  by  the  beasts  that  go  down  on  the  plain. 

Is  it  worth  while  that  we  battle  to  humble 
Some  poor  fellow-soldier  down  into  the  dust? 

God  pity  us  all!      Lime  erelong  will  tumble 
All  of  us  together,  like  leaves  in  a  gust, 
Humbled,  indeed,  down  into  the  dust. 


6  4,  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

"VAS   MARRIAGE   A    FAILURE? 


CHARLES    FOLLEN     ADAMS. 

VAS  marriage  a  failure?     Veil,  now,  dot  depends 
Altogeddher  on  how  you  look  at  id,  mine  friends. 
Like  dhose  double-horse  teams  dot  you  see  at  der  races, 
Id  depends  pooty  mooch  on  der  pair  in  der  traces; 
Eef  dhey  don'd  pool  togeddher  righdt  off  at  der  sthart, 
Den  dimes  oudt  off  nine  dhey  vas  beddher  apart. 

Vas  marriage  a  failure?     Der  vote  was  in  doubt; 

Dhose  dot's  oudt  vould  be  in.  dhose  dot's  in  vould  be  oudt; 

Der  man  mit  oxberience,  goot  looks  unci  dash, 

Gets  a  vife  mit  some  fife  hundord  dousand  in  cash; 

Budt,  after  der  honeymoon,  vhere  vas  der  honey? 

She  haf  der  oxberience— he  haf  der  money. 

Vas  marriage  a  failure  ?     Eef  dot  vas  der  case, 

Vot  vas  to  pecome  off  der  whole  human  race? 

Vot  you  dink  dot  der  oldt  "  Pilgrim  faders  "  vould  say, 

Dot  came  in  der  Sunflower  to  oldt  Plymouth  bay, 

To  see  der  fine  coundtry  dis  peoples  haf  got, 

Und  dhen  hear  dhem  ask  sooch  conondhrums  as  dot  ? 

Vas  marriage  a  failure?     Shust  go,  ere  you  tell, 

To  dot  Bunker  Mon  Hillument,  vhere  Varren  fell ; 

Dink  off  Vashington,  Franklin,  und  "  Honest  Old  Abe  '* — 

Dhey  vas  aii  been  aroundt  since  dot  first  Plymouth  babe. 

I  vas  only  a  Deutscher,  budt  I  dells  you  vot! 

I  pelief,  every  dime,  in  sooch  "failures''  as  dot. 

Vas  marriage  a  failure?     I  ask  mine  Katrine: 
Und  she  look  off  me  so  dot  I  feels  pooty  mean.. 


FAVORITE   SELECTIONS.  65 

Dhen   she  say;     "  Meester  Strauss,    shust   come  here  eef  you 

b  lease. " 
Unci  she  dake  me  vhere  Yawcob  und  leedle  Loweeze 
By  dheir  snnug  trundle-bed  vas^shust  saying  dheir  prayer, 
Und  she  say,  mit  a  smile:  "  Vas  dhere  some  failures  dhere  ?  " 


MIRAGE. 

EDITH    SESSIONS    TUPPER. 

CLEAR  shining  through  the  swimming  air, 
Across  a  stretch  of  summer  seas, 
Far,  lofty  peaks  gleam  white  and  fair, 
The  heights  of  the  Hesperides. 

0  far-off  peaks!     O  happy  isles? 

I  sail  and  sail  and  long  for  youf 
And  still  th'  enticing  vision  smiles 
To  lure  me  o'er  the  waters  blue. 

Below  those  fair  and  gleaming  heights, 
Ne'er  shrouded  o'er  by  drifting  snows, 

Lie  gardens  filled  with  rare  delights, 
And  there  the  golden  apple  grows. 

1  sail  and  sail  and  long  for  you, 

But  never  come  to  those  fair  isles: 
Still  stretches  wide  the  boundless  blue. 
Forever  still  the  scene  beguiles. 

Unci  imbed  those  lofty  mountain  heights, 
Far  off  beyond  the  smiling  seas, 

Unreached  that  garden  of  delights. 
Untrodden  the  Hesperides. 

5 


66  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS 


THE    LOST    PEARL. 

I    DIPPED  my  hand  in  the  sea,  wantonly. 
The  sun  shone  red  o'er  castle  and  cave; 
Dreaming  I  rocked  on  the  sleepy  wave; 
I  drew  a  pearl  from  the  sea,  wonderingly. 

There  in  my  hand  it  lay,  who  could  say 
How  from  the  depths  of  the  ocean  calm 
It  rose,  and  slid  itself  into  my  palm? 
I  smiled  at  finding  there  pearl  so  fair. 

I  kissed  the  beautiful  thing,  marveling. 
Poor  till  now,  I  had  grown  to  be 
The  wealthiest  maiden  on  land  or  sea. 
A  priceless  gem  was  mine,  pure,  divine! 

I  hid  the  pearl  in  my  breast,  fearful  lest 
The  wind  should  steal  or  the  wave  repent 
Largess  made  in  mere  merriment, 
And  snatch  it  back  again  into  the  stream. 

But  careless  grown,  ah,  me!   wantonly 
I  held  between  two  fingers  fine 
A  gem  above  the  sparkling  brine, 
Only  to  see  it  gleam  across  the  stream. 

I  felt  the  treasure  slide  under  the  tide 

Glittering  upward,  fade  away. 

Ah,  then  my  tears  did  flow,  long  ago! 

I  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep,  into  the  deep; 

Sad  am  I  that  I  could  not  hold 

A  treasure  richer  than  virgin  gold, 

That  Fate  so  sweetly  gave  out  of  the  wave. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  6j 

I  dip  my  hand  in  the  sea,  longingly, 

But  never  more  will  that  jewel  white 

Shed  on  my  soul  its  tender  light: 

My  pearl  lies  buried  deep  where  mermaids  sleep 


AT    SUNSET„ 

MARGARET    E.    SANGSTER. 


IT  isn't   the   thing  you   do,  dear,  it's   the   thing   you've   left 
undone, 
Which  gives  you  a  bit  of  heartache  at  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
The  tender  word  forgotten,  the  letter  you  did  not  write, 
The  flower  you  might  have  sent,  dear,  are  your  haunting  ghosts 
to-night. 

The  stone  you  might  have  lifted  out  of  a  brother's  way, 

The  bit  of  heartsome  counsel  you  were  hurried  too  much  to  say; 

The  loving  touch   of  the  hand,  dear,  the  gentle  and  winsome 

tone 
That  you  had  no  time   or  thought  for,  with  troubles  enough  of 

your  own. 

The  little  act  of  kindness  so  easily  out  of  mind; 
Those  chances  to  be  angels,  which  every  mortal  finds, 
They  come  in  night  and  silence  each  chill,  reproachful  wraith — 
When  hope  is  faint  and  flagging,  and  a  blight  has  dropped   on 
faith. 

For  life  is  all  too  short,  dear,  and  sorrow  is  all  too  great, 

To  suffer  our  slow  compassion  that  tarries  until  too  late. 

And   it's   not  the   thing  you   do,  dear,  it's   the    thing  you  leave 

undone, 
Which  gives  you  the  bit  of  heartache  at  the  setting  of  the  sun. 


68  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


WHO    IS    MY    NEIGHBOR? 


THY  neighbor?     It  is  he  whom  thou 
Hast  power  to  aid  and  bless; 
Whose  aching  heart  or  burning  brow 
Thy  soothing  hand  may  press. 

Thy  neighbor?  'Tis  the  fainting  poor, 
Whose  eye  with  want  is  dim, 

Whom  hunger  sends  from  door  to  door; 
Go  thou  and  succor  him. 

Thy  neighbor?     'Tis  that  weary  man, 
Whose  years  are  at  the  brim, 

Bent  low  with  sickness,  care  and  pain; 
Go  thou  and  comfort  him. 

Thy  neighbor?     'Tis  the  heart  bereft 

Of  every  earthly  gem, 
Widow  and  orphans  helpless  left; 

Go  thou  and  shelter  them. 

Where'er  thou  meet'st  a  human  form 
Less  favored  than  thine  own, 

Remember  'tis  thy  neighbor  worm, 
Thy  brother,  or  thy  son. 

Oh!  pass  not,  pass  not  heedless  by; 

Perhaps'  thou  canst  redeem 
The  breaking  heart  from  misery-?-? 

Go  share  thy  lot  with  him. 


FAVORITE  SELECTIONS.  69 

CARCASSONNE. 


GUSTAVB    NADAUD. 


(  4  TT  OW  old  I  am  !    I'm  eighty  years ! 
J.  JL      I've  worked  both  hard  and  long. 
Yet,  patient  as  my  life  has  been, 
One  dearest  sight  I  have  not  seen — 

It  almost  seems  a  wrong. 
A  dream  I  had  when  life  was  new : 
Alas,  our  dreams,  they  come  not  true. 

I  thought  to  see  fair  Carcassonne — 

That  lovely  city,  Carcassonne. 

"  One  sees  it  dimly  on  the  height 

Beyond  the  mountains  blue. 
I  fain  would  walk  five  weary  leagues — 
I  do  not  mind  the  road's  fatigues — 

Through  morn  and  evening  dew; 
But  bitter  frosts  would  fall  at  night, 
And  on  the  grapes  that  yellow  blight ! 

I  could  not  go  to  Carcassonne ; 

I  never  went  to  Carcassonne. 

"  They  say  it  is  as  gay  all  times 

As  holidays  at  home. 
The  gentles  ride  in  gay  attire, 
And  in  the  sun  each  gilded  spire 

Shoots  up  like  those  of  Rome ; 
The  bishop  the  procession  leads, 
And  generals  curb  their  prancing  steeds: 

Alas  !     I  know  not  Carcassonne ! 

Alas !     I  saw  not  Carcassonne  I 


70  JULIA  AND  ANNIE  THOMAS' 

"  Our  vicar's  right.    He  preaches  loud, 

And  bids  us  to  beware.     He  says, 
i  Oh,  guard  the  weakest  part, 
And  most  the  traitor  in  the  heart, 

Against  ambition's  snare.' 
Perhaps  an  autumn  I  can  find — 
Two  sunny  days  with  gentle  wind ; 
I  then  could  go  to  Carcassonne, 
I  still  could  go  to  Carcassonne ! 

"  My  God  and  Father,  pardon  me 
If  this,  my  wish,  offends ; 

One  sees  some  hope  more  high  than  he 

In  age  as  in  his  infancy, 

To  which  his  heart  ascends. 

My  wife,  my  son,  have  seen  Narbonne; 

My  grandson  went  to  Perpignan ; 
But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne — 
I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne  !  " 

Thus  sighed  a  peasant,  bent  with  age, 

Half  dreaming  in  his  chair. 
I  said,  "  My  friend,  come,  go  with  me 
To-morrow ;  then  thine  eyes  shall  see 

The  streets  that  seem  so  fair." 
That  night  there  came  for  passing  soul 
The  church  bell's  low  and  solemn  toll — 

He  never  saw  gay  Carcassonne. 

Who  has  not  known  a  Carcassonne  ? 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  7  J 


TACK. 


upREENS!      Dand' lion  greens!      Greens!"  shouts  a  child's- 

vJ     voice. 

And  I  heard  the  quick  steps  of  small  bare  feet  pattering  up 
the  lane.  Presently  a  face  appeared  at  the  open  window  of 
my  kitchen,  where  I  was  busy,  superintending  the  Saturday's 
baking. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  don't  you  want  a  basket  of  fresh  greens  all 
picked  with  the  dew  on  'em?  They'll  make  a  good  dinner, 
and  only  cost  five  cents." 

Poor  little  manikin,  I  thought,  to  work  so  long  and  to  trudge 
so  far,  all  for  five  cents!  My  dinner  was  provided,  and  dan- 
delion greens  were  not  included  in  the  bill-of-fare — but  how 
could  I  refuse  him  ? 

"Yes,  Jack,  come  in  here  and  eat  a  doughnut  while  I  empty 
your  basket  " 

He  was  not  slow  to  accept  the  invitation,  and  chattered  like 
a  magpie  every  minute  while  he  eagerly  devoured  several 
doughnuts,  and  looked  longingly  at  a  pan  of  cookies  just 
taken  from  the  oven. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am!  You  see,  it  makes  a  feller  awful 
hungry — this  dand'lion  business  does.  I  like  to  get  'em  when 
they're  fresh  and  cool,  before  the  sun  has  been  on  'em  long,  sc 
I  start  at  five  o'clock  and  sometimes  earlier,  and,  of  course,  1 
don't  have  any  breakfast  first,  and  when  it  happens  that  a 
feller  hasn't  had  any  supper  either  the  night  before,  it  makes 
him  feel  kind  o'  empty  like."  .-. :    . 

All  this  was  said  without  a  moment's  pause,  and  swinging 
his  little  bare  heels  together,  as  he  sat  perched  up  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, he   laughed   the   merriest   laugh   in   the  world,  which 


72  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

brought  to  the  surface  a  great  dimple  hidden  away  in  each  sun- 
burned cheek,  and  showed  all  his  pretty  white  teeth. 

"But  you  had  your  supper  last  night,  hadn't  you?  " 

"No,  ma'am.  You  see  there  was  only  two  potaters  to  go 
round,  and  the  round  they  had  to  go  was  mother,  Susie  and  me, 
a  big  round  for  two  small  potaters — don't  you  think  so,' 
ma'am  ?  " 

And  again  he  laughed,  as  if  it  was  the  funniest  thing  he 
had  ever  heard  of,  instead  of  a  most  pathetic  story. 

"  How  did  you  manage  ?  " 

"Well,  you  see,  ma'am,  I  haven't  been  to  school  long  enough 
to  learn  how  to  divide  two  potaters  among  three  people  so 
that  each  shall  have  a  whole  one.  So  says  I  to  mother,  'You 
take  this  one,  and  Sue  and  I'll  handy-spandy  for  the  other.' 
Then  I  held  it  behind  me  and  said  to  Susie,  'Handy-spandy, 
Jack-a-dandy,  upper  hand  or  lower!' 

"'Lower,'  says  Susie. 

"And  lower  it  was,  to  be  sure,  'cause  I  held  both  hands  even 
till  she  answered,  and  then  dropped  the  one  with  the  potater 
in  it  lower,  which  wasn't  cheatin',  ma'am,  now,  was  it?" 

"No,  my  brave  little  Jack;  it  surely  was  not  cheating. "  I 
answered,  turning  away  that  he  might  not  see  the  tears  in  my 
eyes. 

"Well,  Sue,  you  see,  didn't  like  to  take  it;  for  she's  awful 
generous,  if  she  is  poor,  and  she  tried  to  get  it  back  on  me  by 
saying  she  thought  upper,  and  'twas  only  her  lips  that  said 
lower.  She  meant  upper  all  the  time.  She  isn't  well — Sue 
isn't.  She's  little  and  white,  and  one  potater  ain't  much  of 
a  supper  for  the  like  of  her,  anyway.  And  at  last  I  made  her 
eat  the  whole  of  it.  I  told  her  that  we'd  have  a  good  dinner 
to-day,  'cause  I  knowed  somebody  would  buy  my  greens,  and 
I'm  going  to  spend  the  whole  five  cents  for  one  dinner.  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  I'm  going  to  get  three  herrings  at  a 
cent  apiece,  and  the  rest  in  potatoes." 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS.  73 

And  he  smacked  his  lips  as  he  thought  of  the  treat  in  store 
for  them  all. 

'"I  think,"  he  continued,  "that  you've  paid  me  pretty  well 
for  my  greens  in  doughnuts  without  any  five  cents  at  all.  Still, 
as  /  look  at  it,"  he  added,  with  a  sly  twinkle  in  his  great  blue 
e)es,  "doughnuts  is  doughnuts  and  cents  is  cents;  and  the 
doughnuts  is  a  present,  and  the  cents  is  pay. " 

I  laughed  aloud  at  his  reasoning,  and  said: 

"Now,  Jack,  I  want  you  to  keep  your  five  cents  till  some 
night  when  you  haven't  any  supper,  and  let  me  fill  your  basket 
with  something  that  I  know  will  go  around.  I  want  Susie  to 
have  a  glass  of  fresh  milk.  So  you  must  carry  this  tin  pail 
beside  the  basket.      Do  you  think  you  can  manage  them  both?" 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  guess  you'll  see  whether  I  can  manage  'em 
or  not.  But  do  you  think  I  can  dig  greens  enough  to  pay  for 
all  them  things  you're  putting  in  ?  " 

"  No,  Jack,  I  don't,  for  they  are  not  to  be  paid  for.  I  want 
to  send  these  to  your  mother — that  is  all;  and  as  you  said 
yourself,  doughnuts  is  doughnuts  and  cents  is  cents." 

"To  be  sure,"  he  answered,  merrily.  "Well,  ma'am,  T  just 
wish  you  could  see  'em  when  I  tell  'em  how  good  you've  been 
to  me.  Some  folks  ain't  good,  you  know,"  he  added,  with  a 
sigh. 

While  I  filled  the  basket  ne  told  me  their  little  history, 
never  realizing  how  full  it  was  of  the  deepest  pathos — the 
struggles  of  the  poor  mother  to  keep  her  family  together  after 
the  death  of  her  husband,  who  had  left  her  one  morning  to  go 
to  his  work  in  the  great  iron  foundry,  and  was  brought  back 
to  her  a  few  hours  later,  having  met  his  death  while  toiling  for 
those  he  loved.  He  did  not  realize,  either,  how  his  own  self- 
sacrificing  spirit  shone  out  through  his  words,  proving  to  me 
the  strength  and  sweetness  of  his  character.  What  a  hero  he 
was,  this  little  twelve-year-old  Jack! 

"  Mother  has  worked  so  hard  for  Sue  and   me  that  she  hasn't 


74  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

much  strength  left.  And  don't  you  think,"  he  added,  straight- 
ening himself  up  proudly,  "  don't  you  think  I'm  big  enough  to 
take  care  of  us  three?  Leastways,  I've  been  lucky  this  morn- 
ing, for  I've  sold  my  greens  and  found  you." 

The  gratitude  in  his  heart  was  plainly  visible  in  his  little 
face  as  he  turned  it  up  to  me. 

I  told  him  that  henceforth  we  would  be  the  very  best  and 
warmest  of  friends,  and  that  happier  days  were  in  store  for 
him  and  for  those  at  home. 

Such  a  happy  Jack  as  he  was  when  I  sent  him  home  that 
April  morning,  with  the  heavy  basket  on  one  arm  and  the  pail 
of  milk  on  the  other!  and  I  wish  I  could  tell  you — for  I  am 
sure  you  would  like  to  hear — what  pleasant  days  followed  for 
Jack  and  those  so  dear  to  him;  but  it  would  make  such  a  long, 
long  story  we  should  never  come  to  the  end  of  it. 

Jack  is  proving  himself  the  hero  I  knew  him  to  be. 

He  works,  early  and  late,  on  a  small  piece  of  ground  which 
we  allow  him  to  cultivate  on  our  farm;  and  he  carries  his 
produce  to  town  in  a  basket,  strapped  on  his  back,  and  he  is 
as 'happy  as"  a  king — happier  than  many  kings,  I  am  sure. 

Little,  pale  Susie  is  not  half  so  pale  as  she  was  before  she, 
too,  had  the  chance  given  her  to  "help."  She  has  free  range 
in  my  flower-garden,  and  makes  up  the  daintiest  buttonhole 
bouquets,  with  which  she  fills  her  small  basket  every  morning 
for  Jack  to  take  with  him.  He  never  finds  the  least  difficulty 
in  disposing  of  them  all,  and  a  proud  little  lass  she  is  when  he 
drops  the  pennies  into  her  hand  at  night. 

The  mother  is  growing  strong  and  well  again,  happy  in  her 
boy's  thoughtful  care,  and  cheery,  light-hearted  ways.  He  is 
not  yet' thirteen  years  old,  but  his  mother  calls  him  the  "head 
of  the-  house, "  and  he  truly  deserves  the  title.  Brave  little 
man — God  bless  him! 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  75 


DISCIPLINE. 

A  BLOCK  of  marble  caught  the  glance 
Of  Buonarotti's  eyes, 
Which  brightened  in  their  solemn  deeps, 

Like  meteor-lighted  skies. 
And  one  who  stood  beside  him  listened, 

Smiling  as  he  heard; 
For  "  I  will  make  an  angel  of  it," 
Was  the  sculptor's  word. 

And  mallet  soon  and  chisel  sharp 

The  stubborn  block  assailed, 
And  blow  by  blow,  and  pang  by  pang, 

The  prisoner  unveiled. 
A  brow  was  lifted,  high  and  pure; 

The  waking  eyes  outshone; 
And  as  the  master  sharply  wrought, 

A  smile  broke  through  the  stone! 

Beneath  the  chisel's  edge  the  hair 

Escaped  in  floating  rings; 
And,  plume  by  plume,  was  slowly  freed 

The  sweep  of  half-furled  wings. 
The  stately  bust  and  graceful  limbs 

Their  marble  fetters  shed, 
And  where  the  shapeless  block  had  been, 

An  angel  stood  instead' 

O  blows  that  smite!     O  hurts  that  pierce 
This  shrinking  heart  of  mine! 

What  are  ye  but  the  Master's  tools, 
Forming  a  work  divine? 


7^  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

O  hope  that  crumbles  at  my  feet! 

O  joy  that  mocks  and  flies! 
What  are  ye  but  the  clogs  that  bind 

My  spirit  from  the  skies! 

Sculptor  of  souls!     I  lift  to  Thee 

Encumbered  heart  and  hands; 
Spare  not  the  chisel,  set  me  free, 

However  dear  the  bands. 
How  blest,  if  all  these  seeming  ills, 

Which  draw  my  thoughts  to  Thee, 
Should  only  prove  that  Thou  wilt  make 

An  angel  out  of  me! 


THREE   WORDS   OF    STRENGTH. 


JOHANN    C.     F.     VON    SCHILLER. 


THERE  are  three  lessons  I  would  write — 
Three  words,  as  with  a  burning  pen, 
In  tracings  of  eternal  light, 
Upon  the  hearts  of  men. 

Have  hope.      Though  clouds  environ  round, 
And  Gladness  hides  her  face  in  scorn, 

Put  off  the  shadow  from  thy  brow — 
No  night  but  hath  its  morn. 

Have  faith.     Where'er  thy  bark  is  driven — 
The  calm's  disport,  the  tempest's  mirth — 

Know  this:   God  rules  the  hosts  of  heaven, 
The  inhabitants  of  earth. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  77 

Have  love.      Not  love  alone  for  one; 

But  man,  as  man,  thy  brother  call; 
And  scatter,  like  the  circling  sun, 

Thy  charities  on  all. 

Thus  grave  these  lessons  on  thy  soul — 

Hope,  faith,  and  love — and  thou  shalt  find 

Strength  when  life's  surges  rudest  roll, 
Light  when  thou  else  wert  blind. 


HOPE   ON. 

ADELAIDE    A.     PROCTER. 


STRIVE;   yet  I  do  not  promise  the  prize  you  dream  of  to-day 
Will  not  fade  when  you  think  to  grasp  it,  and  melt  in  your 
hand  away; 
But   another   and   holier    treasure,  you    would    now   perchance 

disdain, 
Will  come  when  your  toil  is  over,  and  pay  you  for  all  your  pain. 

Wait;  yet  I  do  not  tell  you  the  hour  you  long  for  now 

Will  not  come  with   its  radiance  vanished,  and  a  shadow  upon 

its  brow; 
Yet  far  through  the  misty  future,  with  a  crown  of  starry  light, 
An  hour  of  joy  you  know  not  is  winging  her  silent  flight. 

Pray;  though   the   gift   you   ask   for  may   never   comfort  your 

fears, 
May   never  repay  your   pleading,  yet   pray,  and   with   hopeful 

tears : 
An  answer,  not  that  you   long  for,  but  diviner,  will  come  one 

day; 
Your  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see  it,  yet  strive,  and  wait,  and  pray. 


7§  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


THE    HOUR    OF    PRAYER. 


VICTOR    HUGO. 


MY  daughter,  go  and  pray!      See,  night  is  come! 
One  golden  planet  pierces  through  the  gloom; 
Trembles  the  misty  outline  of  the  hill. 
Listen!     The  distant  wheels  in  darkness  glide — 
All  else  is  hushed;  the  tree  by  the  roadside 

Shakes  in  the  wind  its  dust-strewn  branches  still. 


Day  is  for  evil,  weariness,  and  pain. 

Let  us  to  prayer;  calm  night  is  come  again. 

The  wind  among  the  ruined  towers  so  bare 
Sighs  mournfully;   the  herds,  thd  flocks,  the  streams, 
All  suffer,  all  complain;   worn  nature  seems 

Longing  for  peace,  for  slumber,  and  for  prayer. 

It  is  the  hour  when  babes  with  angels  speak. 
While  we  are  rushing  to  our  pleasures  weak 

And  sinful;   all  young  children,  with  bent  knees, 
Eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  small  hands  folded  fair, 
Say  at  the  self-same  hour  the  self-same  prayer, 

On  our  behalf,  to  Him  who  all  things  sees. 

And  then  they  sleep.      O  peaceful  cradle-sleep! 
O  childhood's  hallowed  prayer;   religion  deep 

Of  love,  not  fear,  in  happiness  expressed! 
So  the  young  bird,  when  done  its  twilight  lay 
Of  praise,  folds  peacefully  at  shut  of  day 

Its  head  beneath  its  wing,  and  sinks  to  rest. 


FA  V0R1  'I '£    SELECTIONS.  7 9 


ANNABEL    LEE. 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE. 


IT  was  many,  full  many  a  year  ago, 
In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  lived,  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee; 
And  this  maiden  lived  with  no  other  thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child,  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee : 
With  a  love  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out   of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful    Annabel  Lee: 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsman  came  ■ 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me; 
Yes,  that  was  the  reason,,  as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 


80  JULIA    AtfD    AXNIE    THOMAS' 

But  our  love  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 
And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 
And  so  all  the  night  tide  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


WOMEN    OF  THE    WAR. 


ANNIE    THOMAS. 


[Written  for  and  read  before  the  Soldiers  and  Sailors'  Department  of  the  Nat- 
ional Women's  Christian  Temperance  Union,  at  the  commemoration  of 
Women  of  the  War,  May  30,  18S7,  New<!York  City.] 

ALL  praise,  all  honor  to  the  valiant  men 
Who,  casting  fortune  by,  and  risking  life, 
Left  home  and  loved  ones — all  that  life  holds  dear — 
To  fight  for  country  or  for  country  die. 

Speak  of  their  valor  oft  in  thankful  words, 
Sing  loud  and  clear  their  praise,  in  notes  of  love; 
Cover  their  graves  with  bays  and  flowers  to-day. 
Of  them,  too  much  cannot  be  said  or  sung. 


FA  WRITE    SELECTIONS. 

And  to  the  living,  wounded  heroes — all, 

Who  gave  the  best  of  life — the  dearest  gift; 

Who,  maimed,  are  destined  now  through  time  to  go — 

Our  country's  best  and  choicest  gifts  be  tendered. 

Others  there  are  who  bore  no  minor  part 

In  the  dread  conflict  of  our  civil  strife; 

Who  bravely,  with  tongue  and  pen,  aye,  and  with  life, 

Defended  right  as  only  woman  may; 

Who  in  the  hospital  with  gentle  hand 
Bound  up  the  bleeding  wound,  cooled  the  parched  lip; 
With  aching  brow,  night  after  night  kept  watch, 
Tenderly  nursing  the  dying  back  to  life. 

Or  those,  who,  patient,  toiled  alone  at  home, 
Bearing  the  double  burden  on  them  thrown; 
Struggling,  and  often  'midst  hunger,  cold  and  grief, 
To  rear  the  little  ones  that  to  them  clung. 

The  noble,  patient  mothers,  sisters,  wives, 
Who,  with  brave  hearts  and  loving,  hopeful  words, 
Hiding  their  sorrow,  denying  even  tears, 
Cheered  on  the  weary,  homesick  patriots. 

The  dear  old  grandmother,  whose  trembling  hands 
Knitted  away  for  them — her  soldiers  all — 
Until  the  poor  eyes,  dim  with  age  and  tears, 
Grown  blinded  quite,  the  stitch  no  longer  found. 

The  tender,  loving  younger  ones — sweethearts — 
For  love  of  whom  and  praise  from  whom  full  oft, 
The  soldier  nerved  his  heart  and  marched  away 
To  combat,  suffering,  privation,  death. 
6 


JULIA    AXD    AXXIE     THOMAS' 

To  these  we  also  render  thanks  to-day; 
Of  these — brave  ones— oar  heartfelt  songs  are  sung. 
The  memory  of  these  to-day  refreshed  with  tears; 
These,  also,  wreathe  we  with  immortal  flowers. 


SUGGESTION 


RICHARD     RKALPH. 


r^AIR  are  the  flowers  and  the  children,  but   their   subtle  sug- 
gestion is  fairer : 
Rare   is  the  rosebud  of   dawn,  but    the  secret   that  clasps    it   is 

rarer : 
Sweet  the  exultance  of  song,  but  the  strain  that  precedes  it  is 

sweeter : 
And  never  was  poem   yet   writ,  but   the   meaning  out-measured 
the  metre. 


Never  a  daisy  that  grows,  but  a  mystery  guideth  the  growing; 
Never  a  river  that  flows,  but  a  majesty  sceptres  the  flowing; 
Never  a  Shakespeare   that   soared,  but   a  stronger  than   he  did 

enfold  him  ; 
Never  a  prophet   foretells,    but  a   mightier  seer   hath   foretold 

him. 

Back  of  the  canvas  that  throbs  the  painter  is  hinted  and  hidden; 

Into  the  sculpture  that  breathes  the  soul  of  the  sculptor  is  bid- 
den ; 

Under  the  joy  that  is  felt  lie  the  infinite  issues  of  feeling: 

Crowning  the  glory  revealed  is  the  glory  that  crowns  the  re- 
vealing. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  S3 

Great  are  the  symbols  of  b(eing,  but  that  which  is  symboled  is 
greater; 

Vast  the  create  and  beheld,  but  vaster  the  inward  creator; 

Back  of  the  sound  broods  the  silence,  back  of  the  gift  stands 
the  giving ; 

Back  of  the  hand  that  receives  thrill  the  sensitive  neves  of  re- 
ceiving. 

Space  is  as  nothing  to  spirit,  the  deed  is  outdone  by  the  doing; 
The  heart  of  the  wooer   is  warm,  but  warmer  the  heart  of  the 

wooing; 
And   up   from   the   pits   where    these   shiver,    and   up   from   the 

heights  where  those  shine, 
Twin  voices  and  shadows  swim  starward  and  the  essence  of  life 

is  divine. 


THE    CHEMISTRY    OF    CHARACTER. 


ELIZABETH    DORNEY 


JOHN  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul, 
God  in  His  wisdom  created  them  all. 
John  was  a  statesman  and  Peter  a  slave, 
Robert  a  preacher  and  Paul — a  knave. 
Evil  or  good,  as  the  case  might  be, 
White,  or  colored,  or  bond,  or  free — 
John  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul, 
God  in  His  wisdom  created  them  all. 

Out  of  earth's  elements  mingled  with  flame, 
Out  of  life's  compounds  of  glory  and  shame, 
Fashioned  and  shaped  by  no  will  of  their  own, 
And  helplessly  into  life's  history  thrown; 


84  JULIA    AND    ANN  IE    THOMAS' 

Born  by  the  law  that  compels  men  to  be, 
Born  to  conditions  they  could  not  foresee — ■ 
John  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul, 
God  in  His  wisdom  created  them  all. 

John  was  the  head  and  the  heart  of  his  state, 
Was  trusted  and  honored,  was  noble  and  great ; 
Peter  was  made  'neath  life's  burdens  to  groan, 
And  never  once  dreamed  that  his  soul  was  his  own; 
Robert  great  glory  and  honor  received; 
For  zealously  preaching  what  but  few  believed; 
While  Paul  of  the  pleasures  of  sin  took  his  fill, 
And  gave  up  his  life  to  the  service  of  ill. 

It  chanced  that  these  men,  in  their  passing  away 

From  earth  and  its  conflicts,  all  died  the  same  day. 

John  was  mourned  through   the   length  and   the  breadth  of  the 

land  ; 
Peter  fell  'neath  the  lash  of  a  merciless  hand; 
Robert  died  with  the  praise  of  the  Lord  on  his  tongue; 
While  Paul  was  convicted  of  murder  and  hung. 
John  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul, 
The  purpose  of  life  was  fulfilled  in  them  all. 

Men  said  of  the  statesman,  "  How  noble  and  brave!  ' 
But  of  Peter,  alas!  "  He  was  only  a  slave." 
Of  Robert,  "  'Tis  well  with  his  soul — it  is  well ;" 
While  Paul  they  consigned  to  the  torments  of  hell. 
Born  by  one  law,  through  all  nature  the  same, 
What  made  them  differ,  and  who  was  to  blame? 
John  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul, 
God  in  His  wisdom  created  them  all. 

Out  in  that  region  of  infinite  light 

Where  the  soul  of  the  black  man  is  pure  as  the  white; 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  &5 

Out  where  the  spirit,  through  sorrow  made  wise, 
No  longer  resorts  to  deception  and  lies; 
Out  where  the  flesh  can  no  longer  control 
The  freedom  and  faith  of  the  God-given  soul — 
Who  shall  determine  what  change  may  befall 
John  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul  ? 

John  may  in  wisdom  and  goodness  increase; 

Peter  rejoice  in  an  infinite  peace; 

Robert  may  learn  that  the  truths  of  the  Lord 

Are  more  in  the  spirit  and  less  in  the  word; 

And  Paul  may  be  blessed  with  a  holier  birth 

Than  the  passions  of  man  had  allowed  him  on  earth. 

John  and  Peter  and  Robert  and  Paul, 

God  in  His  wisdom  will  care  for  them  all. 


HANS    AND    FRITZ. 


CHARLES    FOLLEN    ADAMS. 


HANS  and  Fritz  were  two  Deutschers  who  live  side  by  side, 
Remote  from  the  world,  its  deceit  and  its  pride; 
With  their  pretzels  and  beer  their  spare  moments  were  spent, 
And  the  fruits  of  their  labor  were  peace  and  content. 

Hans  purchased  a  horse  of  a  neighbor  one  day, 
And,  lacking  a  part  of  the  Geld — as  they  say — 
Made  a  call  upon  Fritz  to  solicit  a  loan, 
To  help  him  to  pay  for  his  beautiful  roan. 

Fritz  kindly  consented  the  money  to  lend, 
And  gave  the  required  amount  to  his  friend; 
Remarking — his  own  simple  language 'to  quote — 
"Berhaps  it  vas  bedder  ve  make  us  a  note." 


S6 


JULIA    AND   ANNIE    THOMAS' 


The  note  was  drawn  up  in  their  primitive  way — 
"  I,  Hans,  gets  from  Fritz  feefty  tollars  to-tay  " — 
When  the  question  arose,  the  note  being  made, 
"  Vich  von  holds  dot  baper  until  it  vas  baid  ? :' 

u  You  geeps  dot,"  says  Fritz,  "  und  den  you  vill  know 
i^ou  owes  me  dot  money."     Says  Hans:   "  Dot  ish  so; 
Dot  makes  me  remempers  I  haf  dot  to  bay, 
Und  I  prings  you  der  note  und  der  money  some  day." 

A  month  had  expired,  when  Hans,  as  agreed, 
Paid  back  the  amount,  and  from  debt  he  was  freed. 
Says  Fritz,  "Now  dot  settles  us."     Hans  replies,  "Yaw; 
Now  who  dakes  dot  baper  accordings  by  law  ?" 

"I  geeps  dot,  now,  aind't  it?"  says  Fritz;   "den  you  see 
I  alvays  remempers  you  baid  dot  to  me." 
Savs  Hans,  "  Dot  ish  so,  it  vos  now  shust  so  blain 
Dot  I  knows  vot  to  do  ven  I  porrows  again." 


MARGERY. 


MRS.    E.    C.    FOSTER. 


AROUND  the  winter  fire  to-night, 
I  trace  upon  the  ember  bright 
The  name  of  one  now  lost  to  sight, 
Can  it  be  yours,  my  Margery  ? 

I  look  around  and  count  them  all, 
And  wildly  search  around  the  wall, 
To  see  if  there  your  shadow  fall, 
As  once  it  used  to,  Margery. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  87 

Oh,  yonder  is  the  empty  chair, 
Once  softly  cushioned  in  mohair, 
Now  broken,  tattered,  lone  and  bare, 
And  no  one  fills  it,  Margery. 

Far  in  the  rear's  the  naked  bed, 
The  pillow  that  your  darling  head 
Pressed  the  dark  night  your  spirit  fled, 
Amid  those  death  heaves,  Margery. 

Oh,  lost  one,  do  you  ever  weep, 

Or  ever  there  such  vigils  keep 

As  mine,  when  all  the  world's  asleep? 

You  will  not  answer,  Margery. 

0  tell  me  if  in  your  high  sphere 
Such  partings  come  as  we  have  here, 
And  thoughts  of  winding-sheet  and  bier 
Make  life  so  bitter,  Margery. 

My  soul  is  sick,  I  try  again 

To  raise  the  old  familiar  strain. 

Oh,  you'll  take  up  the  sweet  refrain; 

1  hear  you  singing,  Margery 

Spring  flushes  up  with  rosy  things, 
Upon  the  spray  the  mock-bird  sings, 
I  list  to  hear  if  either  brings 
A  message  from  you,  Margery 

They  all  come  back,  but  give  no  sign 
That  you  will  ever  here  be  mine, 
O  birdling,  cowslip,  columbine, 
Who  loved  you  like  my  Margery? 


88  JULIA    AND   ANNIE    THOMAS' 

When  will  you  come?     At  eventide 
When  phantom  boats  dark  waters  ride 
Which  this  and  your  pure  realm  divide, 
Or  come  at  dawning,  Margery  ? 

When  will  you  come?     In  winter's  snow. 
Or  when  the  south  winds  softly  blow. 
And  sky  and  earth  are  all  aglow 
With  God's  bright  presence,  Margery? 

I'm  weary  of  my  fleshly  coil, 
Weary  of  all  my  life's  turmoil, 
Weary  of  crosses,  tears  and  toil; 
For  you  I'll  bear  them,  Margery. 

I  saw  the  coffin,  heard  the  bell 
That  tolled  the  mournful  funeral  knell, 
I  knew  no  more — farewell'   farewell! 
Till  we  meet  yonder,  Margery. 

It  seems  as  if  all  time  had  sped 
Since  on  that  young  and  queenly  head 
They  heaped  the  clods,  and  called  you  dead, 
And  broke  my  heart,  my  Margery. 

I  never  knew  death  had  the  power 
To  rend  two  lives  in  one  short  hour ; 
They  buried  you,  the  sweet  young  flower, 
And  left  me  dying,  Margery. 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS.  Sg 


EDEN    ADVANCING. 


REV.    E.    H.    STOKES,    D.  D. 


T   WANDER   'midst  buddings  and  blossoms,    and    wonder   if 

L  Adam  in  bliss, 

With  Eve  in    her  beauty  beside  him,  ever  saw  such   gardens  as 

*  this. 
I  wonder   if   skies   in  their   softness,  or  flowers  which  waved   in 

the  air, 
Or  fountains  which  gleamed  in  the  sunlight  were  fairer,  or  even 

as  fair. 

Wherever  I  turn  there  is  grandeur,  around,  beneath,  and  above ; 
All  nature  is  burdened  with  gladness,  and   sorrows  seem  sigh- 

ings  of  love. 
Each   moment   increases  the  rapture,  as  films  fall   off  from  my 

eyes, 
New  beauties  unfold  in  these  pathways,  each  one  a  still  higher 

surprise. 

The  pansies  with  faces  so  human,  are   yellow,  and   purple,  and 

blue : 
And   the    heliotrope,  bending    with    fragrance,    is    meekly   and 

modestly  true , 
Geraniums  in  stateliness  standing,  as   their   blossoms   blush    in 

the  sun, 
Are  as   rose-red    plumes  of   the    warriors,  in   pride  of   a  victory 

won. 

Where  clematis  clings  to  the  trellis  and  dew-drops  are  falling 

like  spray ; 
Wisteria,  climbing  still  higher,  rejoices  in  gracefulness  gay. 


9°  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

She  hangs  out  her  clusters  of  purple,  and  royally  smiles  in  her 

'      rise, 
Blessing  earth    in    reaching   toward    heaven,  finds   heaven   de- 
scending the  skies. 

I  walk,  and  I  talk  with  the  flowers,  as  the  grasses  spring  at  my 
feet; 

While  the  leaves  make  music  above  me,  and  in  them  find  rap- 
ture complete ;  ' 

Things  seem  so  wonderfully  human,  like  myself,  or  some  one 
I  know, 

I  want  them  to  be  my  companions,  and  go  with  me  whither  I 
go. 

I  want  them  to  soothe  me  in  sorrow,  I  want  them  to  breathe  in 

my  song ; 
I  want  them   to   join    in  my  triumphs,  and   lead  me   away  from 

the  wrong. 
To  be    first  and    fresh  at    the    banquet,  the    last    at    the  funeral 

prayer; 
And  when   youth   and   beauty  are  wedded,  have   bridal  wreaths 

crowning  them  there. 

This  garden  can  furnish  for  either,  for  all  and  have  plenty  to 
spare ; 

The  giving  which  adds  to  the  glory,  makes  fragrance  increas- 
ingly rare. 

The  fields  are  white-robed  with  the  daisies,  meadows  glow  with 
buttercups  bright; 

The  mountains  are  bursting  with  laurels,  and  brooks  sing  in 
summer  delight. 

I  smile  in  unfolding  florescence,  I  revel  in  excess  of  bloom, 
Bloom  leading  to  gardens  of  heaven,  away  from  a  blossomless 
doom. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  91 

Dear  world  of  the  brighter  above  us,  I  dream  of  thy  glories  in 

this; 
And,  drawn  by  such  outbursts  of  splendor,  ascend  to  that  centrf 

of  bliss.     • 


THE   INDIAN'S    REVENGE. 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


SCENE    IN    THE    LIFE    OF    A    MORAVIAN    MISSIONARY. 

Scene. — The  shore  of  a  lake  surrounded  by  deep  woods.  A  solitary  cabin 
on  its  banks  overshadowed  by  sycamore  trees.  The  hour  is  evening 
twilight.     Hermann  the  missionary  seated  alone  before  the  cabin. 

Hermann.      Was  that  the  light  from  some  lone  swift  canoe 
Shooting  across  the  waters?     No,  a  flash 
From  the  night's  first  quick  fire-fly,  lost  again 
In  the  deep  bay  of  cedars.      Not  a  bark 
Is  on  the  wave;   no  rustle  of  a  breeze 
Comes  through  the  forest.      In  this  new,  strange  world, 
Oh,  how  mysterious,  how  eternal,  seems 
The  mighty  melancholy  of  the  woods! 
The  desert's  own  great  spirit,  infinite! 
Little  they  know,   in  mine  own  fatherland, 
Along  the  castled  Rhine,  or  e'en  amidst 
The  wild  Hartz  mountains,  or  the  sylvan  glades 
Deep  in  the  Odenwald,  they  little  know 
Of  what  is  solitude!      In  hours  like  this, 
There  from  a  thousand  nooks,  the  cottage-hearths 
Pour  forth  red  light  through  vine-hung  lattices, 
To  guide  the  peasant,  singing  cheerily, 
On  the  home  path;  while  round  his  lowly  porch. 
With  eager  eyes  awaiting  his  return, 


()2  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS1 

The  clustered  faces  of  his  children  shine 

To  the  clear  harvest  moon       Be  still,  fond  thoughts 

Melting  my  spirit's  grasp  from  heavenly  hope 

By  your  vain  earthward  yearnings.      O  my  God: 

Draw  me  still  nearer,  closer  unto  Thee, 

Till  all  the  hollow  of  these  deep  desires 

May  with  Thyself  be  filled!     Be  it  enough 

At  once  to  gladden  and  to  solemnize 

My  lonely  life,  if  for  Thine  altar  here 

In  this  dread  temple  of  the  wilderness, 

By«prayer  and  toil  and  watching,  I  may  win 

The  offering  of  one  heart,  one  human  heart, 

Bleeding,  repenting,  loving! 

Hark  !   a  step, — 
An  Indian  tread!     I  know  the  stealthy  sound. 
'Tis  on  some  quest  of  evil,  through  the  grass 
Gliding  so  serpent-like. 

\Hc  comes  forward^  and  meets  an  Indian  warrior  armed. \ 

Enonio,   is  it  thou  ?      I  see  thy  form 

Tower  stately  through  the  dusk,  yet  scarce  mine  eye 

Discerns  thy  face. 

Enonio.  My  father  speaks  my  name. 

Herr       Are  not  the  hunters  from  the  chase  returned? 
The  night-fires  lit?     Why  is  my  son  abroad? 

Eno.      The  warrior's  arrow  knows  of  nobler  prey 
Than  elk  or  deer.      Now  let  my  father  leave 
The  lone  path  free. 

Herr.  The  forest  way  is  long 

From  the  red  chieftain's  home.      Rest  thee  awhile 
Beneath  my  sycamore,  and  we  will  speak 
Of  these  things  further. 

Eno.  Tell  me  not  of  rest! 

My  heart  is  sleepless,  and  the  dark  night  swift — 
I  must  be   eone. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS  93 

Herr.    [so lem nly\ .      No,  warrior,  thou  must  stay, 
The  Mighty  One  hath  given  me  power  to  search 
Thy  soul  with  piercing  words — and  thou  must  stay, 
And  hear  me,  and  give  answer!      If  thy  heart 
Be  grown  thus  restless,  is  it  not  because 
Within  its  dark  folds  thou  hast  mantled  up 
Some  burning  thought  of  ill  ? 

Eno.    \impetuously\.      How  should  I  rest? 
Last  night  the  spirit  of  my  brother  came, 
An  angry  shadow  in  the  moonlight  streak, 
And  said,  "  Avenge  me!  "     In  the  clouds  this  morn 
I  saw  the  frowning  color  of  his  blood — 
And  that,  too,  had  a  voice.      I  lay  at  noon, 
Alone  beside  the  sounding  waterfall, 
And  through  its  thunder-music  spake  a  tone — 
A  low  tone  piercing  all  the  roll  of  waves — 
And  said,  "Avenge  me!  "     Therefore  have  I  raised 
The  tomahawk,  and  strung  the  bow  again, 
That  I  may  send  the  shadow  from  my  couch, 
And  take  the  strange  sound  from  the  cataract, 
And  sleep  once  more. 

Herr.  A  better  path,  my  son, 

Unto  the  still  and 'dewy  land  of  sleep, 
My  hand  in  peace  can  guide  thee — -e'en  the  way 
Thy  dying  brother  trod.      Say,  didst  thou  love 
That  lost  one  well  ? 

Eno.  Knowest  thou  not  we  grew  up 

Even  as  twin  roses  amidst  the  wilderness? 
Unto  the  chase  we  journeyed  in  one  path; 
We  stemmed  the  lake  in  one  canoe;   we  lay 
Beneath  one  oak  to  rest.      When  fever  hung 
Upon  my  burning  lips  my  brother's  hand 
Was  still  beneath  my  head;   my  brother's  robe 
Covered  my  bosom  from  the  chill  night  air. 


94  JULIA    AND    A  AW  IE    THOMAS' 

Our  lives  were  girdled  by  one  belt  of  love, 
Until  he  turned  him  from  his  father's  gods, 
And  then  my  soul  fell  from  him — then  the  grass 
Grew  in  the  way  between  our  parted  homes, 
And  wheresoe'er  I  wandered  then  it  seemed 
That  all  the  woods  were  silent — I  went  forth — 
I  journeyed,  with  my  lonely  heart,  afar, 
And  so  returned — and  where  was  he  ? — the  earth 
Owned  him  no  more. 

Hf.rr.  But  thou  thyself,  since  then, 

Hast  turned  thee  from  the  idols  of  thy  tribe, 
And,  like  thy  brother,  bowed  the  suppliant  knee 
To  the  one  God. 

Exo.  Yes,  I  have  learned  to  pray 

With  my  white  father's  words,  yet  all  the  more 
My  heart  that  shut  against  my  brother's  love. 
Hath  been  within  me  as  an  arrowy  fire, 
Burning  my  sleep  away.      In  the  night  hush, 
'Midst  the  strange  whispers  and  dim  shadowy  things 
Of  the  great  forests,  I  have  called  aloud, 
"Brother!   forgive,  forgive!  ''      He  answered  not. 
His  deep  voice,  rising  from  the  land  of  souls, 
Cries  but,  "Avenge  me'  "   and  I  go  forth  now 
To  slay  his  murderer,  that  when  next  his  eyes 
Gleam  on  me  mournfully  from  that  pale  shore, 
I  may  look  up,  and  meet  their  glance,  and  say, 
"  I  have  avenged  thee'  " 

Herr.  Oh'   that  human  love 

Should  be  the  root  of  this  dread  bitterness. 
Till  heaven  through  all  the  fevered  being  pours 
Transmuting  balsam  !      Stay,  Enonio,  stay! 
Thy  brother  calls  thee  not!     The  spirit  world 
Where  the  departed  go,  sends  back  to  earth 
No  visitants  for  evil.      'Tis  the  might 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  95 

Of  the  strong  passion,  the  remorseful  grief 

At  work  in  thine  own  breast,  which  lends  the  voice 

Unto  the  forest  and  the  cataract, 

The  angry  color  to  the  clouds  of  morn, 

The  shadow  to  the  moonlight.      Stay,  my  son, 

Thy  brother  is  at  peace.      Beside  his  couch, 

When  of  the  murderer's  poisoned  shaft  he  died, 

I  knelt  and  prayed;  he  named  his  Saviour's  name, 

Meekly,  beseechingly;  he  spoke  of  thee 

In  pity  and  in  love. 

Eno.    \hurriedly\.    Did  he  not  say 
My  arrow  should  avenge  him? 

Herr.    His  last  words  were  all  forgiveness. 

Eno.   What!   and  shall  the  man 
Who  pierced  him  with  the  shaft  of  treachery, 
Walk  fearless  forth  in  joy? 

Herr.      Was  he  not  once  thy  brother's  friend? 
Oh*!  trust  me,  not  in  joy 

He  walks  the  frowning  forest.      Did  keen  love, 
Too  late  repentant  of  its  heart  estranged, 
Wake  in  thy  haunted  bosom,  with  its  train 
Of  sounds  and  shadows — and  shall  he  escape? 
Enonio,  dream  it  not!     Our  God,  the  All-just, 
Unto  Himself  reserves  this  royalty — 
The  secret  chastening  of  the  guilty  heart, 
The  fiery  touch,  the  scourge  that  purifies — 
Leave  it  with  Him!     Yet  make  it  not  thy  hope, 
For  that  strong  heart  of  thine — oh!   listen  yet — - 
Must,  in  its  depths,  o'ercome  the  very  wish 
For  death  or  torture  to  the  guilty  one, 
Ere  it  can  sleep  again. 

Eno.  My  father  speaks 

Of  change  for  man  too  mighty. 

Herr.  1  but  speak 


96  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Of  that  which  hath  been,  and  again  must  be, 

If  thou  wouldst  jom  thy  brother  in  the  life 

Of  the  bright  country  where,  I  well  believe, 

His  soul  rejoices.      He  had  known  such  change. 

He  died  in  peace.      He  whom  his  tribe  once  named 

'The  avenging  eagle,"  took  to  his  meek  heart, 

In  its  last  pangs,  the  spirit  of  those  words 

Which  from  the  Saviour's  cross  went  up  to  heaven — 

"  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  thev  do, 

Father,  forgive  !  "      And  o'er  the  eternal  bounds 

Of  that  celestial  kingdom,  undefiled, 

Where  evil  may  not  enter,  he,   I  deem, 

Hath  to  his  Master  passed.      He  waits  thee  there — 

For  love,  we  trust,  springs  heavenward  from  the  grave. 

Immortal  in  its  holiness.      He  calls 

His  brother  to  the  land  of  golden  light 

And  ever-living  fountains.      Couldst  thou  hear 

His  voice  o'er  those  bright  waters,  it  would  say, 

''My  brother!  oh,  be  pure,  be  merciful! 

That  we  may  meet  again." 

End.    [hesitating/v].  Can  I  return 

Unto  my  tribe  and  unavenged  ? 

Herr.  To  Him, 

To  Him  return  from  Whom  thine  erring  steps 
Have  wandered  far  and  long'      Return,  my  son, 
To  thy  Redeemer!      Died  He  not  in  love — 
The  Sinless,  the  Divine,  the  Son  of  God — 
Breathing  forgiveness  'midst  all  His  agonies, 
And  we,  dare  we  be  ruthless?     By  His  aid 
Shalt  thou  be  guided  to  thy  brother's  place 
'Midst  the  pure  spirits       Oh!   retrace  thy  way 
Back  to  the  Saviour'      He  rejects  no  heart 
E'en  with  the  dark  stains  on  it,   if  true  tears 
Be  o'er  them  showered.      Aye,  weep  thou,  Indian  chief! 


FA  VORITK    SELECTIONS.  97 

For  by  the  kindling  moonlight  I  behold 
Thy  proud  lips'  working — weep,  relieve  thy  soul! 
Tears  will  not  shame  thy  manhood,  in  the  hour 
Of  its  great  conflict. 

Eno.    [giving  up  his  weapons].      Father,  take  the  bow; 
Keep  the  sharp  arrows  till  the  hunters  call 
Forth  to  the  chase  once  more  .      And  let  me  dwell 
A  little  while,  my  father,  by  thy  side, 
That  I  may  hear  the  blessed  words  again- 
Like  water-brooks  amidst  the  summer  hills — 
From  thy  true  lips  flow  forth;   for  in  my  heart 
The  music  and  the  memory  of  their  sound 
Too  long  have  died  away. 

Herr.  Oh,  welcome  back, 

Friend,  rescued  one!     Yes,  thou  shalt  be  my  guest, 
And  we  will  pray  beneath  my  sycamore 
Together,  morn  and  eve;  and  I  will  spread 
Thy  couch  beside  my  fire,  and  sleep  at  last, 
After  the  visiting  of  holy  thoughts, 
With  dewy  wing  shall  sink  upon  thine  eyes! 
Enter  my  home,  and  welcome,  welcome  back 
To  peace,  to  God,  thou  lost  and  found  again ! 
[They  enter  cabin  together.      Herrmann  lingers   to  look  up   to  the 

skies.  ] 
Father!   that  from  amidst  yon  glorious  worlds 
Now  look'st  on  us,  Thy  children'   make  this  hour 
Blessed  for  ever!      May  it  see  the  birth 
Of  Thine  own  image  in  the  unfathomed  deep 
Of  an  immortal  soul— a  thing  to  name 
With  reverential  thought,  a  solemn  world! 
To  Thee  more  precious  than  those  thousand  stars 
Burning  on  high  in  Thy  majestic  heaven!  ■   _ 
7 


9S  JULIA    AND    AXX1E     THOMAS' 


"FATHER,    TAKE    MY    HAND." 

THE  way  is  dark,  my  Father!     Cloud  on  cloud 
Is  gathering  thickly  o'er  my  head,  and  loud 
The  thunders  roar  above  me.      See,  I  stand 
Like  one  bewildered!      Father,  take  my  hand, 
And  through  the  gloom 
Lead  safely  home  , 

Thy  child! 

The  day  goes  fast,  my  Father!  and  the  night 
Is  drawing  darkly  down.  My  faithless  sight 
Sees  ghostly  visions.  Fears,  a  spectral  band, 
Encompass  me.      O  Father!  take  my  hand, 

And  from  the  night 

Lead  up  to  light 
Thy  child! 

« 
The  way  is  long,  my  Father!   and  my  soul 

Longs  for  the  rest  and  quiet  of  the  goal ; 

While  yet  I  journey  through  this  weary  land, 

Keep  me  from  wandering.      Father,  take  my  hand; 

Quickly  and  straight 

Lead  to  heaven's  gate 
Thy  child1 

The  path  is  rough,  my  Father!      Many  a  thorn 
Has  pierced  me;   and  my  weary  feet,  all  torn 
And  bleeding,  mark  the  way.      Vet  Thy  command 
Bids  me  press  forward.      Father,  take  my  hand; 

Then,  safe  and  blest, 

Lead  up  to  rest 
Thy  child! 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  99 

The  throng  is  great,  my  Father!     Many  a  doubt 
And  fear  and  danger  compass  me  about, 
And  foes  oppress  me  sore.      I  cannot  stand 
Or  go  alone.      O  Father!   take  my  hand, 

And  through  the  throng 

Lead  safe  along 
Thy  child' 

The  cross  is  heavy,  Father!     I  have  borne  t 

It  long,  and  still  do  bear  it.      Let  my  worn 
And  fainting  spirit  rise  to  that  blest  land 
Where  crowns  are  given.      Father,  take  my  hand; 

And  reaching  down, 

Lead  to  the  crown 
Thy  child! 


THREE  DAYvS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  COLUMBUS. 


JEAN    F.    C.    DELAVIGNE. 

ON  the  deck  stood  Columbus;   the  ocean's  expanse, 
Untried  and  unlimited,  swept  by  his  glance. 
"  Back  to  Spain!  "   cry  his  men:      "  Put  the  vessel  about! 
We  venture  no  further  through  danger  and  doubt." 
"Three  days,  and  I  give  you  a  world!  "  he  replied; 
"Bear  up,  my  brave  comrades;  three  days  shall  decide." 
He  sails — but  no  token  of  land  is  in  sight ; 
He  sails — but  the  day  shows  no  more  than  the  night. 
On,  onward  he  sails,  while  in  vain  o'er  the  lee 
The  lead  is  plunged  down  through  a  fathomless  sea. 

The  pilot,  in  silence,  leans  mournfully  o'er 
The  rudder  which  creaks  'mid  the  billowy  roar: 


IOO  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

He  hears  the  hoarse  moan  of  the  spray-driving  blast, 

And  its  funeral  wail  through  the  shrouds  of  the  mast. 

The  stars  of  far  Europe  have  sunk  from  the  skies, 

And  the  great  Southern  Cross  meets  his  terrified  eyes; 

But  at  length,  the  slow  dawn  softly  streaking  the  night 

Illumes  the  blue  vault  with  its  faint  crimson  light. 

"Columbus!    'tis  day,  and  the  darkness  is  o'er." 

"Day!  and  what  dost  thou  see?''   "  Sky  and  ocean.    No  more! 

The  second  day's  past,  and  Columbus  is  sleeping, 

While  Mutiny  near  him  its  vigil  is  keeping. 

"  Shall  he  perish  ?  "     "Ay!  death!"   is  the  barbarous  cry ; 

"He  must  triumph  to-morrow,  or,  perjured,  must  die!" 

Ungrateful  and  blind!   shall  the  world-linking  sea, 

He  traced  for  the  future,  his  sepulchre  be? 

Shall  that  sea,  on  the  morrow,  with  pitiless  waves, 

Fling  his  corse  on  that  shore  which  his  patient  eye  craves? 

The  corse  of  an  humble  adventurer,  then; 

One  day  later — Columbus,  the  first  among  men! 

But,  hush!   he  is  dreaming!     A  veil  on  the  main, 

At  the  distant  horizon,  is  parted  in  twain, 

And  now,  on  his  dreaming  eye,  rapturous  sight! 

Fresh  bursts  the  New  World  from  the  darkness  of  night. 

O  vision  of  glory!   how  dazzling  it  seems' 

How  glistens  the  verdure!   how  sparkle  the  streams! 

How  blue  the  far  mountains!   how  glad  the  green  isles; 

And  the  earth  and  the  ocean,  how  dimpled  with  smiles. 

"Joy!   joy'"  cries  Columbus,  "'this  region  is  mine !  " 

Ah!   not  e'en  its  name,  wondrous  dreamer  is  thine' 

But,  lo !   his  dream  changes,  a  vision  less  bright 
Comes  to  darken  and  banish  that  scene  of  delight. 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS. 

The  gold-seeking  Spaniards,  a  merciless  band, 
Assail  the  meek  natives,  and  ravish  the  land. 
He  sees  the  fair  palace,  the  temple  on  fire, 
And  the  peaceful  cazique  'mid  their  ashes  expire. 
He  sees,  too — O  saddest!   O  mournful  lest  sight! — 
The  crucifix  gleam  in  the  thick  of  the  fight. 
More  terrible  far  than  the  merciless  steel 
Is  the  uplifted  cross  in  the  red  hand  of  zeal! 

Again  the  dream  changes.      Columbus  looks  forth, 
And  a  bright  constellation  beholds  in  the  North. 
'Tis  the  herald  of  empire!      A  people  appear, 
Impatient  of  wrong,  and  unconscious  of  fear! 
They  level  the  forest;   they  ransack  the  seas; 
Each  zone  finds  their  canvas  unfurled  to  the  breeze. 
"Hold!  "  Tyranny  cries;  but  their  resolute  breath 
Sends  back  the  reply,  "Independence  or  death!" 
The  ploughshare  they  turn  to  a  weapon  of  might, 
And,  defying  all  odds,  they  go  forth  to  the  fight. 

They  have  conquered!     The  people,  with  grateful  acclaim 

Look  to  Washington's  guidance  from  Washington's  fame. 

Behold  Cincinnatus  and  Cato  combined 

In  his  patriot  heart  and  republican  mind. 

O  type  of  true  manhood!     What  sceptre  or  crown 

But  fades  in  the  light  of  thy  simple  renown? 

And  lo!   by  the  side  of  the  hero,  a  sage, 

In  freedom's  behalf,  sets  his  mark  on  the  age; 

Whom  science  adoringly  hails,  while  he  wrings 

The  lightning  from  heaven,  the  sceptre  from  kings! 

At  length,  o'er  Columbus  slow  consciousness  breaks. 
"Land!    land!"   cry  the  sailors;   "land!    land!"   he  awakes- 
He  runs — yes!  behold  it!     It  blesseth  his  sight; 
The  land!      O  dear  spectacle !  transport!   delight! 


102  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

0  generous  sobs,  which  he  cannot  restrain! 

What  will  Ferdinand  say?  and  the  future?  and  Spain? 

He  will  lay  this  fair  land  at  the  foot  of  the  throne; 

His  king  will  repay  all  the  ills  he  has  known. 

In  exchange  for  a  world  what  are  honors  and  gains? 

Or  a  crown?     But  how  is  he  rewarded?  With  chains! 


KISSING   THE    ROD. 


JAMES    WHITCOMB    RILEY. 

0  HEART  of  mine,  we  shouldn't 
Worry  so ! 
What  we've  missed  of  calm  we  couldn't 

Have,  you  know! 
What  we've  met  of  stormy  pain, 
And  of  sorrow's  driving  rain, 
We  can  better  meet  again 
If  it  blow. 

We  have  erred  in  that  dark  hour 

We  have  known 
When  our  tears  fell  with  the  shower 

All  alone — 
Were  not  shine  and  shadow  blent 
As  the  gracious  Master  meant? 
Let  us  temper  our  content 

With  His  own. 

For  we  know  not  every  morrow 

Can  be  sad  ; 
So,  forgetting  all  the  so;  ow 

We  have  had, 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  103 

Let  us  fold  away  our  fears 
And  put  by  our  foolish  tears 
And  through  all  the  coming  years 
Just  be  glad. 


STATION    DESPAIR. 


JOAQUIN    MILLER. 


WE  must  trust  the  conductor,  most  surely 
Why,  millions  of  millions  before 
Have  made  this  same  journey  securely 

And  come  to  that  ultimate  shore. 
And  we,  we  will  reach  it  in  season; 
And  ah,  what  a  welcome  ts  there! 
Reflect,  then,  how  out  of  all  reason 
To  stop  at  the  Station  Despair. 

Ay,  midnights  and  many  a  potion 

Of  little  black  water  have  we 
As  we  journey  from  ocean  to  ocean — 

From  sea  unto  ultimate  sea — 
To  that  deep  sea  of  seas  and  all  silence 

Of  passion,  concern  and  of  care — 
That  vast  sea  of  Eden-set  islands, 

Don't  stop  at  the  Station  Despair! 

Go  forward,  whatever  may  follow. 

Go  forward,  friend  led,  or  alone; 
Ah,  me!   to  leap  off  in  some  hollow 

Or  fen,   in  the  night  and  unknown — 
Leap  off  like  a  thief;  try  to  hide  you 

From  angels,  all  waiting  you  there! 
Go  forward!    whatever  betide  you, 

Don't  stop  at  that  Station  Despair  ! 


104  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


SHE    WAS  "SOMEBODY'S    MOTHER." 

MARY    D."  BRINE. 

THE  woman  was  old  and  ragged  and  gray, 
And  bent  with  the  chill  of  the  winter's  day: 
The  street  was  wet  with  the  winter's  snow, 
And  the  woman's  feet  were  aged  and  slow. 
She  stood  at  the  crossing  and  waited  long, 
Alone,  uncared-for  amid  a  throng 
Of  human  beings  who  passed  her  by, 
Nor  heeded  the  glance  of  her  anxious  eye. 
Down  the  street  with  laughter  and  shout, 
Glad  in  the  freedom  of  school  let  out. 
Came  the  boys  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
Hailing  the  snow,  piled  white  and  deep. 
Past  the  woman  so  old  and  gray 
Hastened  the  children  on  their  way, 
Nor  offered  a  helping  hand  to  her, 
So  meek,  so  timid,  afraid  to  stir, 
Lest  the  carriage  wheels  or  horses'  feet 
Should  crowd  her  down  in  the  slippery  street. 
At  last  came  one  of  the  merry  troop, 
The  gayest  laddie  of  all  the  group. 
He  paused  beside  her  and  whispered  low: 
"I'll  help  you  across  if  you  wish  to  go." 
Her  aged  hand  on  his  strong  young  arm 
She  placed,  and  without  hurt  or  harm 
He  guided  the  trembling  feet  along, 
Proud  that  his  own  were  firm  and  strong. 
Then  back  again  to  his  friends  he  went, 
His  young  heart  happy  and  well  content. 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS. 

"She's  somebody's  mother,  boys,  you  know, 

For  all  she's  old  and  poor  and  slow; 

And  I  hope  some  fellow  will  lend  a  hand 

To  help  my  mother,  you  understand, 

If  ever  she's  old  and  poor  and  gray, 

When  her  own  dear  boy  is  far  away." 

And  "somebody's  mother"  bowed  low  her  head 

In  her  home  that  night,  and  the  prayer  she  said 

Was:  "God  be  kind  to  the  noble  boy, 

Who  is  somebody's  son  and  pride  and  joy." 


RELIGIO    ACADEMIC!. 

WHAT?     You   have    nowhere  found    Him?     And   I,  I  see 
Him  around  me 
Everywhere;  here  first,  throned  in  the  spirit  of  man. 
Not  in  the  rushing  of  worlds,  or  the  timeless  passage  of  ages; 

Not  in  the  sunbuilt  arch;   not  in  the  cataract's  roar; 
Not  in  the  mightiest  wing  that  soars  o'er  the  summit  of  Andes; 

Not  in  the  tiniest  life  born  in  a  drop  of  the  sea! 
But  in  the  human  spirit'    0  man,   imperial  master, 

Swifter  than  light  thought-borne  through  the  great- ocean  on 
high, 
Tracking  a  sunbeam  here,  and  there  with  balance  gigantic 
Holding  a  star  in  thy  hand,  puny  but  weighing  a  world- 
"  Know  thyself,'   yet  greater  than  all  thy  vision  beholdeth, 

Wonderful  all,  yet  thou  wonderful  even  beyond! 
Hark!      'Tis  His  voice,  thou  hearest  Him.      A  God   is  speak- 
ing within  thee , 
Terrible  now  it  commands;   Sinai  thunders  within: 
"  This  thou  shalt,  thou  shalt  not. "     Anon,  as  after  the  thunder 
Follows  a  gentle  rain,  soft  with  the  piping  of  birds, 


io6  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

So  in  the  calm  still  bosom  is  heard  the  cry  of  a  Father. 

Tenderly  now  it  approves:     "Son,  be  thou  ever  with  me!" 
Beautiful'      Here  is  beauty,  above  the  hue  of  the  rainbow; 

Majesty  stern,  but  sweet;   father  and  mother  in  one. 
Rainbow-promise  is  good;   but  beacon-warning  is  better, 

Over  the  lurid  waves  lighting  the  mariner  home. 

And  thou    hast    loved    her,  Beauty?     Thou  dost    well.      'Tis  a 
maiden 
Fairer  than  words:   her  smile  drawn  from  the  bosom  of  love. 
Guard  her,  and  let  no  touch  of  the  beast  or  satyr  assail   her! 

Honor  her;   hear  from  her  lips,  ponder  her  story  divine; 
Who,  when  the  morning  stars  in  the  bridal  joy  of  creation 
Shouted  her  birth,  came  forth  loveliest  daughter  of  God; 
Came  and  to  cheer  men's  souls,  with  the   brake   and  briar  con- 
tending, 
Gave  to  the  thistle  a  bloom,  budded  a  rose  on  the  thorn; 
Flowers  in  her  track  sprang  up  as  she  passed,  and  winds  of  the 
woodland 
Sighed  into  melody:  man  heard,  and  his  spirit  grew  mild. 
Fair  is  she — fairer  than  all.      But  shall  her  beauty  ensnare  thee 
Slave  to  her  smile,  love- bound,  yearning  for  nothing  beyond? 
Dreamer,  content  with  a  dream,  and   the  sunlit  wall  of  a  dun- 
geon 
Deeming  a  palace?     A  cell  seeming  a  kingdom  to  thee? 
Nay,  but,  O  man,  look  upward!      Her  hand  shall  lift  thee,  and 
lead  thee 
Up  to  the  home  of  her  birth,  back  to  her  Father  and  thine; 
Up  through  the  burnished  clouds,  and  the  flaming  track  of  the 
sunset ; 
Up  through  the  golden  stars,  gleam  of  a  glory  beyond; 
World   flashing   light   to  world   as  they   pass,  like  ships  in  the 
darkness 
Showing  a  light,  then  soon  dash  into  darkness  again; 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  107 

Up  through  the  endless  spaces,  expansion  after  expansion; 

Up  to  the  great  white  throne;  up  to  the  presence  of  God' 
There  shall   she  fold   her  wing,  and,    all  her  mission    accom- 
plished, 

Join  with  the  spirits  on  high,  singing  to  ravish  the  spheres: 
41  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest."     The  lifelong  struggle  is  over; 

Over,  the  fire  and  the  fret;  over,  the  rack  and  the  pain; 
Failure  of  hope;  love's  discord!     The  joy  that  ended  in  mad- 
ness, 

Over  at  last!      Life  closed,  like  its  beginning,  in  tears! 
Mystery  all,  for  God  was  the  cause.      But  love  in  the  distance, 

Holding  an  amaranth  crown,  love  was  the  goal  of  it  all. 


CHICKENS. 


"j    DIDN'T,"  says  Chip.      "  You  did,"  says  Peep 
1      "  How  do  you  know  ?     You  were  fast  asleep. 
"I  was  under  mammy's  wing, 
Stretching  my  legs  like  anything, 
When  all  of  a  sudden  I  turned  around, 
For  close  beside  me  I  heard  a  sound — 
A  little  tip  and  a  little  tap." 
"Fiddle  dee-dee!     You'd  had  a  nap, 
And  when  you  were  only  half  awake 
Heard  an  icicle  somewhere  break." 
"What's  an  icicle?"     "I  don't  know; 
Rooster  tells  about  ice  and  snow — 
Something  that  isn't  as  good  as  meal, 
That  drops  down  on  you  and  makes  you  squeal!" 
"Well,  swallow  Rooster's  tales,  I  beg! 
And  think  you  didn't   come  out  of  an  egg. 


JULIA    AND    AXXIE     THOMAS' 

I  tell  you  I  heard  the  old  shell  break, 

And  the  first  small  noise  you  ever  could  make. 

And  mammy  croodled.  and  puffed  her  breast, 

And  pushed  us  farther  out  of  the  nest 

Just  to  make  room  enough  for  you; 

And  there's  your  shell — I  say  it's  true!" 

Chip  looked  over  his  shoulder  then 

And  there  it  lay,  by  the  old  gray  hen, 

Half  an  egg-shell,  chipped  and  brown. 

And  he  was  a  ball  of  yellow  down, 

Clean  and  chipper  and  smart  and  spry, 

With  the  pertest  bill  and  the  blackest  eye. 

"H'm!'    said  he,  with  a  little  perk, 

"That  is  a  wonderful  piece  of  work! 

Peep,  you  silly!   don't  you  see 

That  shell  isn't  nearly  as  big  as  me  ? 

Whatever  you  say,  miss,  I  declare 

I  never,  never,  never  could  get  in  there!" 

"You  did,"  says  Peep.      "I  didn't,"  says  Chip; 

With  that  he  gave  her  a  horrid  nip, 

And  Peep  began  to  dance  and  peck, 

And  Chip  stuck  out  his  wings  and  neck. 

They  pranced  and  struck  and  capered  about. 

Their  toes  turned  in  and  their  wings  spread  out, 

As  angry  as  two  small  chicks  could  be, 

Till  Mother  Dorking  turned  to  see. 

She  cackled  and  clucked  and  called  in  vain; 

At  it  they  went  with  might  and  main, 

Till  at  last  the  old  hen  used  her  beak, 

And  Peep  and  Chip,  with  many  a  squeak, 

Staggered  off  on  either  side 

With  a  very  funny  skip  and  stride. 

"What  dreadful  nonsense,"  said  xMother  Hen, 

When  she  heard  the  story  told  again. 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS.  109 

"You're  bad  as  the  two  legs  that  don't  have  wings, 

Nor  feathers,  nor  combs — the  wretched  things. 

That's  the  way  they  fight  and  talk 

For  what  isn't  worth  a  mullein  stalk. 

What  does  it  matter,  I'd  like  to  know, 

Where  you  came  from  or  where  you  go?. 

Keep  your  temper  and  earn  your  food; 

I  can't  scratch  worms  for  a  fighting  brood. 

I  won't  have  quarrels;   I  will  have  peace; 

I  hatched  out  chickens,  so  don't  be  geese!" 

Chip  scratched  his  ear  with  his  yellow  claw, 

The  meekest  chicken  that  ever  you  saw; 

And  Peep  in  her  feathers  curled  one  leg, 

And  said  to  herself:  "  But  he  was  an  egg!" 


MY    KATE. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 


SHE  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know, 
And  yet  all  your  best,  made  of  sunshine  and  snow, 
Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  naught  in  the  long-trodden  ways. 
While  she's  still  remembered  on  warm  and  cold  days — 

My  Kate. 

Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  movements  a  grace; 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  on  her  face; 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and  mouth, 
You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth — 

My  Kate. 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eyelids  outbroke, 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she  spoke; 


JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

When  she  did,  so  peculiar  yet  soft  was  the  tone, 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  her  alone — 

My  Kate. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion;   she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  or  wise.      I  infer 
'Twas  her  thinking  of  others,  made  you  think  of  her — 

My  Kate. 

She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never  implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right;   and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at  her  gown — 

My  Kate. 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall; 

They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used — that  was  all. 

If  you  praised   her    as    charming,  some    asked  what    you 

meant, 
But  the  charm  of  her  presence  was  felt  when  she  went — 

My  Kate. 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and  rude, 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  and  did  them  all  good; 
It  always  was  so  with  her — see  what  you  have! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even  herewith  her  grave — 

My  Kate. 

My  dear  one!   when  thou  wast  alive  with  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the  best; 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part 
As  thy  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself,  my  sweetheart — ■ 

My  Kate? 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  Hf 


THE    BOOTBLACK. 


HERE  y'  are!     Black  your  boots,  boss?     Do  it  for  just  five 
cents. 
Shine  'em  up  in  a  minute — that  is,  if  nuthin'  prevents. 
Set  your  foot  right  down  there,  sir;   the  mornin's  kinder  cold, 
Sorter  rough  on  a  feller  when  his  coat's  gettin'  old. 
Well,  yes,  call  it  a  coat,  though  it  ain't  much  more'n  a  tear; 
Can't  git  myself  another — hain't  got  the  stamps  to  spare. 
Well,    yes,  make's   much's  most   on    'em,  that's  so;   but   then, 

you  see, 
They've  only  one  to  care  for;  there's  two  of  us,  Jack  and  me. 

Him?     Why,  that  little  feller  with  a  double-up  sorter  back, 

Settin'  there  on  the  gratin'  a-sunnin'  hisself — that's  Jack. 

He  used  to  be   'round    sell  in'    papers— the  cars  there  was  his 

lay; 
But  he  got  shoved  down  the  stairs  onto  the  pavement  last  May. 
Yes,  sir!   his  father  did  it,  when  he'd  been  drinkin'  one  day; 
He  didn't  care  if  he  killed  him — 'twas  all  owin'  to  liquor,  they 

say. 
He's  never  been  all  right  since,  sir,  sorter  quiet  and  queer; 
Him  and  me  go  tergether,  he's  what  they  call  cashier. 

High  old  style  for  a  bootblack!   made  all  the  fellows  laugh; 
Jack  and  me  had  to  take  it,  but  we  didn't  need  no  chaff. 
Trouble?  I    guess    not    much,  sir;   sometimes    when    biz    gits 

slack  ; 

I  don't  know  how  I'd  stand  it  if  'twasn't  for  little  Jack. 
Why,  boss!   you  ought  ter  hear  him;  he  says  we  needn't  care 
How  rough  luck  is  down  here,  sir,  if  some  day  we  git  up  there. 
There!  all  done  now!     How's  that?  shine  like  a  pair  of  lamps! 
Mornin' ;  give  it  to  Jack,  sir;  he  takes  care  o'  the  stamps. 


JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


OLD    BEN'S   TRUST. 


DO  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  dyin'  becos  I  would  ruther  live, 
And  hang  on  to  my  mis'able  chances  and  what   they   are 
likely  to  give 
In    the    way    of     good    eatin'    and    drinkin',  with    the    'pepsy 

a-houndin'  me  so, 
And   havin'  to   den   up    in  winter   like  a  bear,  with  the  earliest 

snow  ? 
No,    sir!     I   tell   you  that  dyin'  is  leavin'  the   things  that  we 

know, 
And  floatin'  out  into  strange  waters,  all  dark,  above  and  below. 
I  keer  nothin'  for  New  Jerusalum ;   I  know  'twouldn't  seem  like 

hum, 
'Cos  where  they   have  things  so   splendid   they    don't    expect 
poor  folks  to  come. 

But  oh!   if  the  singin'    in   heaven  was  the  hum  of  the  wind  in 

the  pines, 
Or   the   noise   of   the   brook    and  the  river  where  the  brook  and 

the  river  jines; 
If  the  birds  was  to  sing  hallelujar,  as  they  do  in  the  bushes  all 

day, 
And   the   little  brown  chippies  should  chatter,  and  the  locus'es 

chirrup  away; 
If  them  streets  was  kivered  with  mosses,  and  shaded  with  trees 

overhead, 
With   leaves  droppin'    down   in   a  shower,  painted  purple,  and 

yellow,  and  red: 
If  over  that  wonderful  river  I  could  go  all  alone  to  float 
In  and  out  among  the  lilies  with  only  just  Maje  in  my  boat; 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  1 13 

If  I  could  hear  Maje  before  me  a-barkin'  along  the  trail 

1  should  know  there  was  somethin'  to  foller  that  wouldn't  be 

likely  to  fail, 
And  I'd  lay  down  my  head  contented  to  let  the  moss  over  me 

grow 
As  it  does  on  the  trees  in  the  forest,  and  say  I  was  willin'  to 

go. 
If  the   Lord   has   allers  been  with  me,  and  held  me  fast  by  the 

hand 
When   the  fog  kivered    up   the   valleys  and  I'd   lost  the  lay  of 

the  land, 
And  'twas  safe  to  trust  Him  so  fur  I'll  trust   Him  the  very  last 

mile; 
He  knows  where  to  look   when  He  wants  me   without  hailin' 

Him  all  of  the  while. 


A    WOMAN'S    COMPLAINT. 


I    KNOW  that  deep  within  your  heart  of  hearts 
You  hold  me  shrined  apart  from  common  things. 
And  that  my  step,  my  voice  can  bring  to  you 
A  gladness  that  no  other  presence  brings. 

And  yet,  dear  love,  through  all  the  weary  days 
You  never  speak  one  word  of  tenderness, 

Nor  stroke  my  hair,  nor  softly  clasp  my  hand 
Within  your  own  in  loving,  mute  caress. 

You  think,  perhaps,  I  should  be  all  content 
To  know  so  well  the  loving  place  I  hold 

Within  your  life,  and  so  you  do  not  dream 
How  much  I  long  to  hear  the  story  told. 


H4  JULIA    AXD    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

You  cannot  know,  when  we  two  sit  alone 

And  tranquil  thoughts  within  your  mind  are  stirred, 

My  heart  is  crying  like  a  tired  child, 

For  one  fond  look,  one  gentle,  loving  word. 

It  may  be  when  your  eyes  look  into  mine 
You  only  say,  "  How  dear  she  is  to  me!" 

Oh,  could  I  read  it  in  your  softened  glance, 
How  radiant  this  plain  old  world  would  be! 

Perhaps,  sometimes,  you  breathe  a  secret  prayer 
That  choicest  blessings  unto  me  be  given; 

But  if  you  said  aloud,  "God' bless  thee,  dear!" 
I  should  not  ask  a  greater  boon  from  heaven. 

I  weary  sometimes  of  the  rugged  way; 

But  should  you  say,  "Through  thee  my  life  is  sweet, 
The  dreariest  desert  that  our  path  could  cross 

Would  suddenly  grow  green  beneath  my  feet. 

'Tis  not  the  boundless  waters  ocean  holds 
That  give  refreshment  to  the  thirsty  flowers, 

But  just  the  drops  that,  rising  to  the  skies, 

From  thence  descend  in  softly  falling  showers. 

What  matter  that  our  granaries  are  filled 
With  all  the  richest  harvest's  golden  stores, 

If  we  who  own  them  cannot  enter  in, 

But  famished  stand  before  the  close-barred  doors! 

And  so  'tis  sad  that  those  who  should  be  rich 
In  that  true  love  which  crowns  our  earthly  lot, 

Go  praying  with  white  lips  from  day  to  day. 
For  love's  sweet  tokens,  and  receive  them  not. 


FAVORITE   SELECTIONS.  115 


A   LEGEND   OF   BREGENZ. 


ADELAIDE    A.   PROCTER. 


GIRT  round  with  rugged  mountains  the  fair  Lake  Constance 
lies; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected,  shine  back  the  starry  skies; 
And  watching  each  white  cloudlet  float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  heaven  lies  on  our  earth  below! 

Midnight  is  there  ;  and  Silence  enthroned  in  heaven,  looks  down 

Upon  her  own  calm  mirror,  upon  a  sleeping  town. 

For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city  upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 

Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance  a  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers,  upon  their  rocky  steep, 

Have  cast  their  trembling  shadows  for  ages  on  the  deep; 

Mountain  and  lake  and  valley  a  sacred  legend  know, 

Of  how  the  town  was  saved  one  night,  three  hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred  a  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  toil  for  daily  bread; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted  so  silently  and  fast, 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her  the  memory  of  the  past. 

She  served  kind,  gentle  masters,  nor  asked  for  rest  or  change; 
Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new  ones,  their  speech  seemed  no 

more  strange ; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle  to  pasture  every  day, 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder  on  which  side  Bregenz  lay. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz,  with  longing  and  with  tears, 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded  in  a  deep  mist  of  years; 


n6  JULTA    AND    AXXIF.     THOMAS 

She  heeded  not  the  rumors  of  Austrian  war  or  strife: 
Each  day  she  rose  contented,  to  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

Yet.  when   her   master's   children    would   clustering   round    her 

stand, 
She  sang  them  ancient  ballads  of  her  own  native  land: 
And  when  at  morn  and  evening  she  knelt  before  God's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood  rose  to  her  lips  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt.      The  valley  more  peaceful  year  by  year; 
When   suddenly   strange   portents   of   some   great   deed   seemed 

near. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending  upon  its  fragile  stalk. 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields,  paced  up  and  down  in 

talk. 

The   men   seemed   stern    and    altered,  with    looks    cast    on    the 

ground ; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one,  the  women  gathered  round ; 
All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning,  or  work,  was  put  away; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid  to  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow  with  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing,  the  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watching  a  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That   looked  like  lances    'mid   the   trees   that   stopd  below  the 
stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled,  all  care  and  doubt  were  fled; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted,  the  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village  rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand 
And  cried,  "We  drink  the  downfall  of  an  accursed  land: 

"  The  night  is  growing  darker,  ere  one  more  da^  i^  flown 
Bregenz,  our  foemen's   stronghold,  Bregenz  shall  be  our  own!" 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  117 

The  women  shrank  in  terror  (yet  pride,  too,  had  her  part)  ; 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden  felt  death  within  her  heart. 

Before  her,  stood  fair  Bregenz,  once  more  her  towers  arose; 
What  Were  the  friends  beside  her?     Only  her  country's  foes! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk,  the  days  of  childhood  flown, 
The  echoes  of  her  mountains  reclaimed  her  as  their  own! 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her  (though  shouts  rang  forth  again), 
Gone  were  the  green   Swiss  valleys,  the  pasture,  and  the  plain; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision,  and  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz,  and  then,  if  need  be,  die!" 

With   trembling  haste   and   breathless,  with  noiseless   step   she 

sped ; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle  were  standing  in  the  shed; 
She  loosed  the  strong  white  charger,  that  fed  from  out  her  hand, 
She  mounted  and  she  turned  his  head  toward  her  native  land. 

Out— out  into  the  darkness — faster,  and  still  more  fast; 
The  smooth  grass  flies  behind  her,  the  chestnut  wood  is  passed; 
She  looks  up,  clouds  are  heavy  :   Why  is  her  steed  so  slow — 
Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them  can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

"Faster!"   she   cries,     'Oh,    faster!"      Eleven   the   church-bells 

chime , 
"  O    God,"  she   cries,    'help   Bregenz,    and   bring    me   there    in 

time !" 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing,  or  lowing  of  the  kine, 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight  the  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters  their  headlong  gallop  check? 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror,  she  leans  above  his  neck 


Il8  JULIA    A. YD    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

To  watch  the  flowing  darkness,  the  bank  is  high  and  steep, 
One  pause — he  staggers  forward,  and  plunges  in  the  deep! 


She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness  and  looser  throws  the  rein; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters  that  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly,  he  struggles  through  the  foam, 
And  see — in  the  far  distance,  shine  out  the  lights  of  home! 

Up  the  steep  bank  he  bears  her,  and  now  they  rush  again 
Toward  the  heights  of  Bregenz,  that  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz  just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier  to  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved!     Ere  daylight  her  battlements  are  manned; 
Defiance  greets  the  army  that  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic  should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor  the  noble  Tvrol  maid. 


Three  hundred  years  are  vanished,  and  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises,  to  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women  sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving,  the  charger  and  the  maid. 

And    when,  to    guard    old    Bregenz,  by    gateway,    street,    and 

tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long,  and  calls  each  passing  hour: 
"Nine,"  "ten,"  "eleven,"  he  cries   aloud,  and   then  (O   crown 

of  fame') 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies  he  calls  the  maiden's  name. 


FAVORITE    SELECTION'S.  .  1 19 


A   SECOND    TRIAL.       \jJ 


SARAH    WINTER    KELLOGG. 


IT  was  Commencement  at  one  of  our  colleges.  The  people 
were  pouring  into  the  church  as  I  entered  it,  rather  tardy. 
Finding  the  choice  seats  in  the  centre  of  the  audience-room  al- 
ready taken,  I  pressed  forward,  looking  to  the  right  and  to  the 
left  for  a  vacancy  On  the  very  front  row  of  seats  I  found 
one. 

A  little  girl  moved  along  to  make  room  for  me,  looking  into 
my  face  with  large  gray  eyes,  whose  brightness  was  softened 
by  very  long  lashes.  Her  face  was  open  and  fresh  as  a  newly 
blown  rose  before  sunrise  Again  and  again  I  found  my  eyes 
turning  to  the  roselike  face,  and  each  time  the  gray  eyes 
moved,  half-smiling,  to  meet  mine.  Evidently  the  child  was 
ready  to  "make  up"  with  me.  And  when,  with  a  bright  smile, 
she  returned  my  dropped  handkerchief,  and  I  said,  "'  Thank 
you!"  we  seemed  fairly  introduced.  Other  persons,  now  com- 
ing into  the  seat,  crowded  me  quite  close  up  against  the  little 
girl,  so  that  we  soon  felt  very  well  acquainted. 

"There's  going  to  be  a  great  crowd,"  she  said  to  me. 

"Yes,"  I  replied;  "people  always  like  to  see  how  school- 
boys are  made  into  men." 

Her  face  beamed  with  pleasure  and  pride  as  she  said: 

"My  brother's  going  to  graduate;  he's  going  to  speak;  I've 
brought  these  flowers  to  throw  to  him." 

They  were  not  greenhouse  favorites;  just  old-fashioned  flow- 
ers, such  as  we  associate  with  the  dear  grandmothers;  "but," 
I  thought,  "they  will  seem  sweet  and  beautiful  to  him  for  his 
little  sister's  sake  " 

"That  is  my  brother,"  she  went  on,  pointing  with  her  nose- 
gay. 


T20  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

"The  one  with  the  light  hair?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  smiling  and  shaking  her  head  in  inno- 
cent reproof;  "not  that  homely  one;  that  handsome  one  with 
brown  wavy  hair.  His  eyes  look  brown,  too;  but  they  are  not 
■ — -they  are  dark  blue.  There!  he's  got  his  hand  up  to  his 
head  now.      You  see  him,  don't  you?" 

In  an  eager  way  she  looked  from  me  to  him,  and  from  him  to 
me,  as  if  some  important  fate  depended  upon  my  identifying 
her  brother. 

"I  see  him,"  I  said.      "He's  a  very  good-looking  brother. " 

"  He  is  beautiful,  and  he's  so  good,  and  he  studies  so  hard. 
He  has  taken  care  of  me  ever  since  mamma  died.  Here  is  his 
name  on  the  program.  He  is  not  the  valedictorian,  but  he 
has  an  honor,  for  all  that." 

I  saw  in  the  little  creature's  familiarity  with  these  technical 
college  terms  that  she  had  closely  identified  herself  with  her 
brother's  studies,  hopes,  and  successes. 

"His  oration  is  a  real  good  one,  and  he  says  it  beautifully. 
He  has  said  it  to  me  a  great  many  times.  I  'most  know  it  by 
heart.  Oh'  it  begins  so  pretty  and  so  grand.  This  is  the  way 
it  begins,"  she  added,  encouraged  by  the  interest  she  must  have 
seen  in  my  face:  "'Amid  the  permutations  and  combinations 
of  the  actors  and  the  forces  which  make  up  the  great  kaleido- 
scope of  history,  we  often  find  that  a  turn  of  Destin)''s 
hand '  " 

"Why,  bless  the  baby!"  I  thought,  looking  down  into  her 
bright,  proud  face.  I  can't  describe  how  very  odd  and  elfish  it 
did  seem  to  have  those  sonorous  words  rolling  out  of  the  smil- 
ing infantile  mouth. 

As  the  exercises  progressed,  and  approached  nearer  and 
nearer  the  effort  on  which  all  her  interest  was  concentrated, 
my  little  friend  became  excited  and  restless.  Her  eyes  grew 
larger  and  brighter,  two  deep  red  spots  glowed  on  her  cheeks. 

"  Now   it's  his  turn/'  she  said,  turning  to  me  a  face  in  which 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  121 

pride  and  delight  and  anxiety  seemed  about  equally  mingled. 
But  when  the  overture  was  played  through,  and  his  name  was 
called,  the  child  seemed,  in  her  eagerness,  to  forget  me  and  all 
the  earth  beside  him.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  leaned  forward 
for  a  better  view  of  her  beloved,  as  he  mounted  to  the  speakers' 
stand.  I  knew  by  her  deep  breathing  that  her  heart  was  throb- 
bing in  her  throat.  I  knew,  too,  by  the  way  her  brother  came 
up  the  steps  and  to  the  front  that  he  was  trembling.  The 
hands  hung  limp;  his  face  was  pallid,  and  the  lips  blue  as 
with  cold.  I  felt  anxious.  The  child,  too,  seemed  to  discern 
that  things  were  not  well  with  him.  Something  like  fear 
showed  in  her  face.  He  made  an  automatic  bow.  Then  a  be- 
wildered, struggling  look  came  into  his  face,  then  a  helpless 
look,  and  then  he  stood  staring  vacantly,  like  a  somnambulist, 
at  the  waiting  audience.  The  moments  of  painful  suspense 
went  by,  and  still  he  stood  as  if  struck  dumb.  I  saw  how  it 
was;  he  had  been  seized  with  stage-fright. 

Alas!  little  sister!  She  turned  her  large,  dismayed  eyes 
upon  me.  "  He's  forgotten  it,"  she  said  Then  a  swift  change 
came  into  her  face;  a  strong,  determined  look;  and  on  the 
funeral-like  silence  of  the  room  broke  the  sweet,  brave  child- 
voice  : 

"'Amid  the  permutations  and  combinations  of  the  actors 
and  the  forces  which  make  up  the  great  kaleidoscope  of  his- 
tory, we  often  find  that  a  turn  of  Destiny's  hand 

Everybody  about  us  turned  and  looked.  The  breathless  si- 
lence; the  sweet,  childish  voice;  the  childish  face;  the  long, 
unchildlike  words,  produced  a  weird  effect  But  the  help  had 
come  too  late;  the  unhappy  brother  was  already  staggering  in 
humiliation  from  the  stage.  The  band  quickly  struck  up,  and 
waves  of  lively  music  rolled  out  to  cover  the  defeat. 

I  gave  the  little  sister  a  glance  in  which  I  meant  to  show 
the  intense  sympathy  I  felt;  but  she  did  not  see  me.  Her 
eyes,  swimming  with  tears,  were  on  her  brother's  face.      I  put 


122  JULIA    AND   ANNIE     THOMAS' 

my  arm  around  her,  but  she  was  too  absorbed  to  heed  the  ca- 
ress, and  before  I  could  appreciate  her  purpose,  she  was  on  her 
way  to  the  shame-stricken  young  man  sitting  with  a  face  like  a 
statue's.  When  he  saw  her  by  his  side  the  set  face  relaxed, 
and  a  quick  mist  came  into  his  eyes.  The  young  men  got 
closer  together  to  make  room  for  her.  She  sat  down  beside 
him,  laid  her  flowers  on  his  knee,  and  slipped   her  hand  in  his. 

I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  from  her  sweet,  pitying  face.  I 
saw  her  whisper  to  him,  he  bending  a  little  to  catch  her  words. 
Later,  I  found  out  that  she  was  asking  him  if  he  knew  his 
"piece"  now,  and  that  he  answered  yes. 

When  the  young  man  next  on  the  list  had  spoken,  and  while 
the  band  was  playing,  the  child,  to  the  brother's  great  surprise, 
made  her  way  up  the  stage  steps,  and  pressed  through  the 
throng  of  professors  and  trustees  and  distinguished  visitors, 
up  to  the  college  president. 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  she  said  with  a  little  courtesy,  "will 
you  and  the  trustees  let  my  brother  try  again?  He  knows  his 
piece  now. " 

For  a  moment  the  president  stared  at  her  through  his  spec- 
tacles, and  then,  appreciating  the  child's  petition,  he  smiled  on 
her,  and  went  down  and  spoke  to  the  young  man  who  had  failed. 

So  it  happened  that  when  the  band  had  again  ceased  playing, 

it  was  briefly  announced   that  Mr. would  now  deliver  his 

oration,  "Historical  Parallels." 

A  ripple  of  heightened  and  expectant  interest  passed  over 
the  audience,  and  then  all  sat  stone  still,  as  though  fearing  to 
breathe  lest  the  speaker  might  again  take  fright  No  danger! 
The  hero  in  the  youth  was  aroused  He  went  at  his  "piece" 
with  a  set  purpose  to  conquer,  to  redeem  himself,  and  to  bring 
the  smile  back  into  the  child's  tear-stained  face.  I  watched 
the  face  during  the  speaking.  The  wide  eyes,  the  parted  lips, 
the  whole  rapt  being  said  that  the  breathless  audience  was 
forgotten,  that  her  spirit  was  moving  with  his. 


PA  I  "OAV TE    SELECTIONS.  I  2  3 

When  the  address  was  ended  with  the  ardent  abandon  of  one 
who  catches  enthusiasm  in  the  realization  that  he  is  fighting 
down  a  wrong  judgment  and  conquering  a  sympathy,  the  effect 
was  really  thrilling.  That  dignified  audience  broke  into  rapt- 
urous applause;  bouquets  intended  for  the  valedictorian  rained 
like  a  tempest.  And  the  child  who  had  helped  to  save  the 
day — that  one  beaming  little  face,  in  its  pride  and  gladness,  is 
something;  to  be  remembered  forever. 


DUTY. 

JOHANN    C.    F.    VON    SCHILLER. 

U"\T7HAT  shall  I  do  to  be  forever  known?" 

VV  Thy  duty  ever. 

"This  did  full  many  who  yet  sleep  unknown." 

Oh,  never,  never! 
Think'st  thou  perchance  that  they  remain  unknown 

Whom  thou  know'st   not? 
By  angel  trumps  in  heaven  their  praise  is  blown  — 

Divine  their  lot. 

"What  shall    I   do  to  gain  eternal  life?" 

Discharge  aright 
The  simple  dues  with  which  each  day  is  rife, 

Yea,  with  thy  might. 
Ere  perfect  scheme  of  action  thou  devise, 

Will  life  be  fled, 
While  he  who  ever  acts  as  conscience  cries, 

Shall  live,  though  dead. 


124  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS1 

DER   OAK    UND    DER    VINE. 


CHARLES    FOLLEN    ADAMS. 


IDON'D  vas  breaching  voman's  righdts,  or  anyding  like  dot, 
Und  I   likes  to  see  all   beoples  shust  gondented   mit  dheir 
lot; 
But  I  vants  to  gondradict  dot  shap  dot  made  dis  leedle  shoke : 
"A  voman  vas  der  glinging  vine,  und  man  der  shturdy  oak." 

Berhaps,    somedimes,  dot  may  be  drue;  budt,  den   dimes  oudt 

off  nine, 
I  find  me  oudt  dot  man  himself  vas  peen  der  glinging  vine; 
Und  ven  hees  friendts  dhey  all  vas  gone,  und  he  vas  shust  "  tead 

proke," 
Dot's  vhen  der  voman  shteps  righdt    in,  und   peen   der   shturdy 

oak, 

Shust  go  oup  to  tier  paseball  groundts  und  see  dhose  "shturdy 
oaks" 

All  planted  roundt  ubon  der  seats — shust  hear  dheir  laughs  und 
shokes! 

Dhen  see  dhose  vomens  at  der  tubs,  mit  glothes  oudt  on  der 
lines; 

Vhich  vas  der  shturdy  oaks,  mine  frendts,  und  vhich  der  gling- 
ing vines  ? 

Ven  sickness  in  der  householdt  gomes,  und  veeks  und  veeks  he 

shtays, 
Who  vas  id  fighdts  him  mitout  resdt,  dhose  veary  nighdts  und 

days  ? 
Who  beace  und  gomfort   alvays  prings,  und  gools  dot  fefered 

prow  ? 
More  like  id  vas  der  dender  vine  dot  oak  he  glings  to,  now. 


Favorite  selections,  125 

"  Man  vants  budt  leedle  here  pelow, "  der  boet  von  dime  said; 
Dhere's   leedle  dot  man   he  don  d  vant,  T   dink   id  means,  in- 

shted; 
Und  vhen  der  years  keep  rolling  on,  dheir  gares  und  droubles 

pringing, 
He  vants  to  pe  der  shturdy  oak,  und  also  do  der  glinging. 

Maype,  vhen  oaks  dhey  gling  some  more,  und  don'd  so  shturdy 

peen, 
Der  glinging  vines  dhey  haf  some  shance  to  helb   run   life's 

masheen. 
In   helt   und   sickness,  shoy  und  pain,  in  galm  or  shtormy  ved- 

dher, 
'Tvas  beddher  dot  dhose  oaks  und   vines  should   alvays  gling 

togeddher. 


THE    PAINTER    OF    SEVILLE. 


SUSAN    WILSON. 


[Sebastian  Gomez,  better  known  by  the  name  of  the  Mulatto  of  Murillo,  was 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  painters  of  Spain.  -  There  may  yet  be  seen  in 
a  church  of  Seville  the  celebrated  picture  which  he  was  found  painting 
by  his  master.     The  incident  related  occurred  about  the  year  1630.] 

"THVAS  morning  in  Seville;  and  brightly  beamed 
1       The  early  sunlight  in  one  chamber  there; 

Showing,  where'er  its  glowing  radiance  gleamed, 
Rich,  varied  beauty.      'Twas  the  study  where 

Murillo,  the  famed  painter,  came  to  share 
With  young  aspirants  his  long-cherished  art, 

To  prove  how  vain  must  be  the  teacher's  care, 
Who  strives  his  unbought  knowledge  to  impart, 
The  language  of  the  soul,  the  feeling  of  the  heart. 


126  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

The  pupils  came,  and,  glancing  round, 
Mendez  upon  his  canvas  found 
Not  his  own  work  of  yesterday, 
But,  glowing  in  the  morning  ray, 
A  sketch,  so  rich,  so  pure,  so  bright, 

It  almost  seemed  that  there  were  given 
To  glow  before  his  dazzled  sight, 

Tints  and  expression  warm  from  heaven. 

'Twas  but  a  sketch — the  Virgin's  head — 
Yet  was  unearthly  beauty  shed 
Upon  the  mildly  beaming  face; 

The  lip,  the  eye,  the  flowing  hair, 
Had  separate,  yet  blended  grace — 

A  poet's  brightest  dream  was  there! 

Murillo  entered  and,  amazed, 

On  the  mysterious  painting  gazed  ; 

"Whose  work  is  this?  speak,  tell  me!     He 

Who  to  his  aid  such  power  can  call," 
Exclaimed  the  teacher,  eagerly, 

"  Will  yet  be  master  of  us  all. 
Would  I  had  done  it!      Ferdinand! 
Isturitz!  Mendez!   say,  whose  hand 
Among  ye  all?"     With  half-breathed  sigh, 
Each  pupil  answered,  "  'Twas  not  I!" 

"  How  came  it,  then?"   impatiently 
Murillo  cried;  "but  we  shall  see 
Ere  long  into  this  mystery. 
Sebastian!" 

At  the  summons  came 
A  brisrht-eved  slave. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  127 

Who  trembled  at  the  stern  rebuke 

His  master  gave. 
For,  ordered  in  that  room  to  sleep, 
And  faithful  guard  o'er  all  to  keep, 
Murillo  bade  him  now  declare 
What  rash  intruder  had  been  there, 
And  threatened — if  he  did  not  tell 
The  truth  at  once — the  dungeon-cell. 
"Thou  answerest  not,"  Murillo  said. 

(The  boy  had  stood  in  speechless  fear.) 
"Speak  on!"     At  last  he  raised  his  head 

And  murmured,  "  No  one  has  been  here." 
"  'Tis  false'"     Sebastian  bent  his  knee, 
And  clasped  his  hands  imploringly, 
And  said,  "I  swear  it,  none  but  me!" 

"List!"  said  his  master.      "I  would  know 

Who  enters  here — there  have  been  found 

Before,  rough  sketches  strewn  around, 
By  whose  bold  hand  'tis  yours  to  show; 

See  that  to-night  strict  watch  you  keep, 

Nor  dare  to  close  your  eyes  in  sleep. 
If  on  to-morrow  morn  you  fail 

To  answer  what  I  ask, 
The  lash  shall  force  you — do  you  hear? 

Hence'  to  your  daily  task." 


'Twas  midnight  in  Seville;  and  faintly  shone 
From  one  small  lamp  a  dim,  uncertain  ray 

Within  Munllo's  study — all  were  gone 

Who  there,  in  pleasant  tasks  or  converse  gay, 


J2i>  JULIA    AND    A XX IE     THOMAS' 

Passed  cheerfully  the  morning  hours  away. 

'Twas  shadowy  gloom,  and  breathless  silence,  save, 
That  to  sad  thoughts  and  torturing  fear  a  prey, 

One  bright-eyed  boy  was  there — Murillo's  little  slave. 

Almost  a  child — that  boy  had  seen 

Not  thrice  five  summers  yet, 
But  genius  marked  the  lofty  brow, 

O'er  which  his  locks  of  jet 
Profusely  curled;  his  cheek's  dark  hue 
Proclaimed  the  warm  blood  flowing  through 
Each  throbbing  vein,  a  mingled  tide, 
To  Africa  and  Spain  allied. 

"Alas!  what  fate  is  mine!"   he  said. 

"The  lash,  if  I  refuse  to  tell 
Who  sketched  those  figures- — -if  I  do, 

Perhaps  e'en  more — the  dungeon-cell!" 
He  breathed  a  prayer  to  heaven  for  aid; 
It  came — for  soon  in  slumber  laid, 
He  slept,  until  the  dawning  day 
Shed  on  his  humble  couch  its  ray. 

"I'll  sleep  no  more!"   he  cried;  "and  now 
Three  hours  of  freedom  I  may  gain 

Before  my  master  comes;  for  then 
I  shall  be  but  a  slave  again. 

Three  blessed  hours  of  freedom'     How 

Shall  I  employ  them? — ah'  e'en  now 

The  figure  on  that  canvas  traced 

Must  be — yes,  it  must  be  effaced." 

He  seized  a  brush — the  morning  light 
Gave  to  the  head  a  softened  glow; 


FA  I  'OK  J  7  E    SEI.F.C  T/ONS.  1 2  9 

Gazing  enraptured  on  the  sight, 

He  cried,  "Shall  I  efface  it?     No' 
That  breathing  lip'   that  beaming  eye — 
Efface  them?     I  would  rather  die!" 

The  terror  of  the  humble  slave 

Gave  place  to  the  o'erpowering  (low 
Of  the  high  feelings  nature  gave — 

Which  only  gifted  spirits  know. 

He  touched  the  brow,  the  lip,  it  seemed 

His  pencil  had  some  magic  power; 
The  eye  with  deeper  feeling  beamed — 

Sebastian  then  forgot  the  hour1 
Forgot  his  master,  and  the  threat 

Of  punishment  still  hanging  o  er  him; 
For,  with  each  touch,  new  beauties  met 

And  mingled  in  the  face  before  him. 

At  length  'twas  finished;  rapturously 
He  gazed — could  aught  more  beauteous  be! 
Awhile  absorbed,  entranced  he  stood, 
Then  started — horror  chilled  his  blood! 
His  master  and  the  pupils  all 

Were  there  e'en  at  his  side! 
The  terror-stricken  slave  was  mute — - 

Mercy  would  be  denied 
E'en  could  he  ask  it — so  he  deemed, 
And  the  poor  boy  half  lifeless  seemed. 

Speechless,  bewildered— for  a  space 
They  gazed  upon  that  perfect  face, 

Each  with  an  artist's  joy, 

9 


13°  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS 

At  length  Murillo  silence  broke, 
And  with  affected  sternness  spoke — 

"  Who  is  your  master,  boy?" 
"You,  Senor  "  said  the  trembling  slave. 
"  Nay,  who,  I  mean,   instruction  gave, 
Before  that  Virgin  s  head  you  drew?" 
Again  he  answered,  "  Only  you. 
"I  gave  you  none,  '  Murillo  cried. 
"  But  I  have  heard,'    the  boy  replied, 

"What  you  to  others  said 
"And  more  than  heard,"  in  kinder  tone, 
The  painter  said     "  'tis  plainly  shown 

That  you  have  profited. 

"What  [to  his  pupils]  is  his  meed? 

Reward  or  punishment?" 
"Reward,  reward!"   they  warmly  cried. 

(Seoastian's  ear  was  bent 
To  catch  the  sounds  he  scarce  believed, 
But  with  imploring  look  received  ) 
"What  shall  it  be?"     They  spoke  of  gold 

And  of  a  splendid  dress; 
But  still  unmoved  Sebastian  stood, 

Silent  and  motionless. 

"Speak!"   said  Murillo,  kindly,  "choose 

Your  own  reward — what  shall  it  be? 
Name  what  you  wish,  I'll  not  refuse: 
Then  speak  at  once  and  fearlessly." 
"Oh!   if  I  dared!"— Sebastian  knelt. 
"  Courage!"  his  master  said,  and  each 
Essayed,  in  kind,  half-whispered  speech, 
To  soothe  his  overpow'ring  dread 
He  scarcely  heard,  till  some  one  said, 


FA  VORI TE    SEE  E  C  TIONS.  1 3 l 

"  Sebastian,  ask — you  have  your  choice- 
Ask  for  your  freedom!"     At  the  word, 

The  suppliant  strove  to  raise  his  voice: 
At  first  but  stifled  sobs  were  heard, 

And  then  his  prayer — breathed  fervently — 

"  O  master,  make  my  father  free'" 

"  Him  and  thyself,  my  noble  boy!" 
Warmly  the  painter  cried; 

Raising  Sebastian  from  his  feet, 
He  pressed  him  to  his  side. 

"Thy  talents  rare,  and  filial  love, 
E'en  more  have  fairly  won; 

Still  be  thou  mine  by  other  bonds — 
My  pupil  and  my  son." 

Murillo  knew,  e'en  when  the  words 

Of  generous  feeling  passed  his  lips, 
Sebastian's  talents  soon  must  lead 

To  fame  that  would  his  own  eclipse; 
And,  constant  to  his  purpose  still, 

He  joyed  to  see  his  pupil  gain, 
Beneath  his  care,  such  matchless  skill 

As  made  his  name  the  pride  of  Spain. 


"NUMBER    TWENTY-FIVE." 


a 


NUMBER  twenty-five!" 
"  Bring;  on  number  twent 


lty-five!" 

"The  court  is  waiting  for  number  twenty-five!" 
There  was  a   little  hanging  back   on  the  part   of   the  usually 
prompt    official,  but    in    a    moment    more    a    tall,  fine- looking 
woman   strode    defiantly    up,  and    placing    herself    before    the 
judge,  awaited  the  usual  questioning. 


13-2  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

There  was  something  so  piteously  desperate  in  the  prisoner's 
appearance,  and  her  great,  haunting  eyes  had  a  look  of  such 
anguish  in  their  fierce  depths,  that  the  judge,  accustomed  to  all 
kinds  of  sad  sights  and  sounds,  yet  hesitated  a  moment  before 
asking,  with  unwonted  gentleness: 

"What  is  your  name,  my  woman,  and  where  were  you  born?" 

"  Me  name  is  Aleen  Byrne,  yer  honor,  an'  I  were  born  in 
Aberdeen,  off  the  Scottish  coastland.  " 

"  And  you  are  charged  with  striking  a  man  ?" 

"I  am,  yer  honor,  an'  I  ken  weel  I  stricht  the  mon, " 

"And  you  meant  to?" 

"  I  did,  indeed,  yer  honor.      I  only  wish  I  might  a  kilt  him!" 

"  That  would  hardly  have  been  for  your  good,  Aleen.  " 

"  He  s  kilt  me,  yer  honor." 

The  woman  spoke  with  a  low,  impassioned  wail,  which 
caused  respectful  silence  even  in  the  lower  court,  where"  touch- 
ing tones  were  often  unheeded. 

"  McGinnis  testifies  that. he  never  laid  a  hand  on  you,"  re- 
turned the  judge. 

"  He  stabbed  me  to  the  heart,  yer  honor,  an'  the  mon  kens 
it  weel !" 

"Stabbed  you?     Suppose  you  tell  us  about  it." 

"  I  will,  an  me  voice  will  sarve  me.  Ye  micht  no  ken  what 
it  is,  yer  honor,  to  have  one  bonnie  laddie,  an'  none  else  ye 
ca'd  yer  ain.  I  left  the  gude  father  o'  me  lad  a-sleepin'  in  the 
kirkyard  when  I  brought  me  wee  sonnie  to  this  land.  They 
say  this  be  a  countrie  flowin'  wi*  milk  an'  honey,  but  oh,  yer 
honor,  it  flows  wi'  milk  an'  honey  for  some,  an'  for  others,  I 
mind  me.  it  flows  wi'  a  very  sea  o*  poison.  For  mony  a  year 
after  I  reacht  these  shores  I  toiled  in  sun  an'  shade,  but  what 
greeted  mesel'  for  a'  the  toil  so  lang  as  me  winsome  Robbie 
were  thrivin'  an'  gettin'  a  muckle  o'  learnin'-  frah  his  books! 
He  growed  so  fine  an'  tall  that  soon  he  were  ta'en  to  a  gentle- 
man's store  to  help  wi'  the  errants  an'   to  mind  the  counter 


FA  VORI TE    SELEC  TIONS.  I  3  3 

betimes.  Then  the  mon  McGinnis  set  his  evil  eye  on  the  lad. 
I  was  forced  to  pass  his  den  on  me  way  to  and  fra'  the  bread 
store,  an'  he  minded  't  was  mesel'  hated  the  uncanny  look  o' 
the  place.  An'  one  morn  as  I  passet  by  he  said  I  needn't  be 
so  gran'  aboot  me  b'y,  he  were  no  above  ta'en  a  sup  o'  the 
liquor  wi'  the  rest,  of  an  e'en.  I  begged  me  chilt  for  the  love 
o'  God  to  let  the  stoof  alane.  Me  Robbie,  knowin'  no  ill,  prom- 
ised to  bide  by  me  will  an'  wishes,  but  the  mon  McGinnis 
watcht  o'  nights  when  't  were  cauld  an'  stormin,'  an'  he  gave 
the  lad  mony  a  cup  o'  his  dretful  dhrinks,  to  warm  him,  he 
would  say.  I  got  upon  my  knees  to  me  ain  childt  an'  prayed 
him  to  pass  the  place  no  more,  but  to  gang  hame  by  some  ither 
road.  Then  I  went  mesel'  to  the  mon  vvi'out  a  soul  in  his 
body,  an'  p'reps  ye  ken,  yer  honor,  a  mither  would  beg  an' 
pray  for  the  bone  o'  her  bone  an'  the  flesh  o'  her  flesh.  But 
he  laughet  in  my  face,  an'  I  runned  from  his  sicht  afore  I  did 
him  ill.  Las'  nicht,  yer  honor,  the  noise  at  me  door  frightened 
me;  I  runned  wi'  all  me  micht  to  see  what  were  the  trouble, 
an'  me  Robbie  swayed  into  the  room  an'  fell  at  me  feet — he 
were  dhrunk,  yer  honor!  Then  McGinnis  pokes  his  face  in  at 
me  door  an'  asket,  'What  think  ye  now,  Mistress  Byrne?'  Did  I 
mean  to  strike  the  mon,  yer  honor?  An'  could  I,  I'd  a  sthruck 
the  breath  fra'  his  body!  Ye'd  better  keep  me  wi'  lock  an'  key 
the  nicht  till  me  gloom  dies  out;  but  oh,  jedge,  jedge!  there's 
naught  to  kill  the  gnawin'  at  me  heart,  an'  wisht  mesel'  an' 
me  lad  were  in  the  kirkyard  aside  the  gude  father'" 

The  woman  at  the  bar  extended  a  clinched  hand  as  she  added 
with  bitter  vehemence: 

"They  telled  me,  an  I  could  prove  the  mon  sold  liquor  to 
the  bairn  under  age,  the  law  could  stoop  him.  It's  mesel'  wud 
like  to  see  the  law  stoop  one  o'  the  mis'rable  rumsellers  o'  the 
land!  I  tell  ye,  jedge,  there's  naught  but  God's  grewsome 
vengeance  can  stoop  his  ilk,  an'  when  that  falls  it'll  crush  ye 
all!     It's  a'  weel  enough  to  'rest  the  mither  as  she  strikes  the 


134  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

mon  as  ruins  her  ain  childt,  but  wait  ye  till  the  Lord  Almighty 
strikes — ay — wait  ye  for  that,  an  ye  dare'" 

As  the  threatening  voice  stilled,  the  woman  was  pronounced 
discharged,  and  after  his  reappearance  in  court,  McGinnis  was 
lodgtd  in  the  county  jail  on  a  charge  of  having  wilfully  sold  or 
given  intoxicating  drink  to  a  minor.  His  comrades  declared 
the  evidence  on  which  he  was  convicted  to  have  been  illegally 
slight  and  uncertain.  But  the  clerk  of  the  court  was  heard  to 
remark  that  he  believed  from  his  soul  the  judge  was  afraid  to 
disregard  that  old  witch's  warning,  and  dare  not  wait  for  the 
Lord  Almighty  to  strike  back  with  grewsome  vengeance  at 
them  all,      Then  the  clerk  added  thoughtfully: 

"But  she  did  have  a  knell  of  fiery  doom,  did  that  number 
twenty-five '" 


KATIE    LEE    AND    WILLIE    GREY. 


TWO  brown  heads  with  tossing  curls, 
Red  lips  shutting  over  pearls, 
Bare  feet,  white  and  wet  with  dew, 
Two  eyes  black,  and  two  eyes  blue; 
Little  girl  and  boy  were  they, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 

They  were  standing  where  a  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook. 
Flashed  its  silver,  and  thick  ranks 
Of  willow  fringed  its  mossy  banks; 
Half  in  thought,  and  half  in  play, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 

They  had  cheeks  like  cherries  red; 
He  was  taller — 'most  a  head; 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  135 

She,  with  arms  like  wreaths  of  snow, 
Swung  a  basket  to  and  fro 
As  she  loitered,  half  in  play, 
Chattering  to  Willie  Grey. 

"Pretty  Katie,"  Willie  said — 
And  there  came  a  dash  of  red 
Through  the  brownness  of  his  cheek — 
*' Boys  are  strong  and  girls  are  weak, 
And  I'll  carry,  so  1  will, 
Katie's  basket  up  the  hill." 

Katie  answered  with  a  laugh, 
"You  shall  carry  only  half;" 
And  then,  tossing  back  her  curls, 
"  Boys  are  weak  as  well  as  girls." 
Do  you  think  that  Katie  guessed 
Half  the  wisdom  she  expressed? 

Men  are  only  boys  grown  tall , 
Hearts  don  t  change  much,  after  all ; 
And  when,  long  years  from  that  day, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey 
Stood  again  beside  the  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 

Is  it  strange  that  Willie  said, 
While  again  a  dash  of  red 
Crossed  the  brownness  of  his  cheek 
"  I  am  strong  and  you  are  weak  , 
Life  is  but  a  slippery  steep, 
Hung  with  shadows  cold  and  deep,- 

"Will  you  trust  me,  Katie  dear? 
Walk  beside  me  without  fear! 


136  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

May  I  carry,  if  I  will, 
All  your  burdens  up  the  hill?" 
And  she  answered,  with  a  laugh, 
"  No,  but  you  may  carry  half." 

Close  beside  the  lit.tle  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 
Washing  with  its  silver  hands 
Late  and  early  at  the  sands, 
Is  a  cottage,  where  to-day 
Katie  lives  with  Willie  Grey. 

In  a  porch  she  sits,  and  lo! 
Swings  a  basket  to  and  fro — 
Vastly  different  from  the  one 
That  she  swung  in  years  agone, 
This  is  long  and  deep  and  wide, 
And  has — rockers  at  the  side. 


SMITING   THE    ROCK. 


THE  stern  old  judge,  in  relentless  mood, 
Glanced  at  the  two  who  before  him  stood; 
She  was  bowed  and  haggard  and  old, 
He  was  young  and  defiant  and  bold,— 
Mother  and  son;  and  to  gaze  at  the  pair, 
Their  different  attitudes,  look  and  air, 
One  would  believe,  ere  the  truth  were  known, 
The  mother  convicted  and  not  the  son. 

There  was  the  mother;  the  boy  stood  nigh 
With  a  shameless  look,  and  his  head  held  high, 


FAVORITE    SELE  C  TIONS.  137 

Age  had  come  over  her,  sorrow  and  care; 
These  mattered  but  little  so  he  was  there, 
A  prop  to  her  years  and  a  light  to  her  eyes, 
And  prized  as  only  a  mother  can  prize, 
But  what  for  him  could  a  mother  say, 
Waiting  his  doom  on  a  sentence  day? 

Her  husband  had  died  in  his  shame  and  sin; 
And  she,  a  widow,  her  living  to  win, 
Had  toiled  and  struggled  from  morn  till  night, 
Making  with  want  a  wearisome  fight, 
Bent  over  her  work  with  resolute  zeal, 
Till  she  felt  her  old  frame  totter  and  reel, 
Her  weak  limbs  tremble,  her  eyes  grow  dim; 
But  she  had  her  boy,  and  she  toiled  for  him. 

And  he — he  stood  in  the  criminal  dock, 
With  a  heart  as  hard  as  a  flinty  rock, 
An  impudent  glance  and  a  reckless  air, 
Braving  the  scorn  of  the  gazers  there; 
Dipped  in  crime  and  encompassed  round 
With  proof  of  his  guilt  by  captors  found; 
Ready  to  stand,  as  he  phrased  it,  "game," 
Holding  not  crime  but  penitence,  shame. 

Poured  in  a  flood  o'er  the  mother's  cheek 

The  moistening  prayers  where  the  tongue  was  weak 

And  she  saw  through  the  mist  of  those  bitter  tears 

Only  the  child  in  his  innocent  years; 

She  remembered  him  pure  as  a  child  might  be, 

The  guilt  of  the  present  she  could  not  see: 

And  for  mercy  her  wistful  looks  made  prayer 

To  the  stern  old  judge  in  his  cushioned  chair. 


138  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

"Woman,'    the  old  judge  crabbedly  said. 
"Your  boy  is  the  neighborhood's  plague  and  dread 
Of  a  gang  of  reprobates  chosen  chief, 
-An  idler  and  rioter,  ruffian  and  thief, 
The  jury  did  right,  for  the  facts  were  plain, 
Denial  is  idle,  excuses  are  vain. 

The  sentence  the  court  imposes  is  one " 

"Your  honor,"  she  cried,  "he's  my  only  son." 

The  constables  grinned  at  the  words  she  spoke, 

And  a  ripple  of  fun  through  the  court- room  broke; 

But  over  the  face  of  the  culprit  came 

An  angry  look  and  a  shadow  of  shame. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  my  mother!"   loud  cried  he; 

"  You've  got  me  fast,  and  can  deal  with  me; 

But  she's  too  good  for  your  coward  jeers, 

And  I'll "  then  his  utterance  choked  with  tears. 

The  judge  for  a  moment  bent  his  head, 

And  looked  at  him  keenly,  and  then  he  said: 

"  We  suspend  the  sentence — the  boy  can  go;" 

And  the  words  were  tremulous,  forced  and  low, 

"But  stay!"  and  he  raised  his  finger  then, 

"  Don't  let  them  bring  you  hither  again. 

There  is  something  good  in  you  yet,  I  know: 

I'll  give  you  a  chance — make  the  most  of  it — go!" 

The  twain  went  forth,  and  the  old  judge  said- 
"I  meant  to  have  given  him  a  year  instead. 
And  perhaps  'tis  a  difficult  thing  to  tell 
If  clemency  here  be  ill  or  well 
But  a  rock  was  struck  in  that  callous  heart, 
From  which  a  fountain  of  good  may  start; 
For  one  on  the  ocean  of  crime  long  tossed, 
Who  loves  his  mother  is  not  quite  lost." 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  139 


DOLLY'S    PRAYER. 


EMMA   BURT. 

/^OD   in   heaven,  please  to   hearken  to  your   little  Dolly's 
\J     prayer! 
While  the  preacher  says  the  preachin',  please  to  tell   me  where 
you  are; 

"For  I  am  so  tired  waitin'  till  the  big  words  all  are  said, 
And  'amen,'   and  then   the  music,  till   the  peoples  bow  their 
head. 

"  If  I  knew  the  way  to  Jesus,  I  would  creep  so  soft  along 
That  I  wouldn't  'sturb  the  preacher,  nor  the  prayin',  nor  the 
song. 

"Then  I'd  run  so  very  swiftly,  and  I'd  give  Him  a  surprise; 
Oh,  I'm   certain  I  should  know  Him  when  He  looked  into  my 
eyes! 

"He   would    be   so  glad   to   see   me  that   His  arms  He'd  open 

wide, 
And   I'd    quickly  climb    within  them;   there  forever  I  would 

hide. 

"God    in    heaven,    please    to   hearken   to    your   little    Dolly's 

prayer ! 
While   the   preacher   says   the   preachin',    please   to  show    me 

where  you  are!" 

Tired  ones,  with  hearts  impatient,  how  we  echo  Dolly's  prayer: 
"God  in    heaven,    please  to  hearken,  please  to   lead  us  where 
you  are!" 


14°  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


THE    DRUNKARD-MAKER. 

aUOUR  father's  a  drunkard,"  said  pretty  May  Bell; 

I       The  scorn  of  her  accents  no  language  can  tell, 
As  she  wound  a  gold  chain  round  her  fingers  so  fair, 
And  shook  back  the  long  curls  of  her  beautiful  hair. 

And  Bess,  the  drunkard's  child,  bowed  her  white  face, 
Feeling  deeply,  so  deeply,  the  shame  and  disgrace 
As  she  wiped  the  bright  tears  that  were  falling  like  rain,, 
The  haughty  girl  laughed  who  had  given  her  pain. 

A  boy,  brave  and  bright  as  a  boy  could  be, 

Was  untangling  his  kite  in  a  tall  maple  tree; 

He  could  hear  every  word,  he  could  see  everv  look — 

Poor  Bess  with  her  slate  and  her  old  tattered  book. 

An  indignant  flush  dyed  his  cheek  like  a  rose, 

As  he  viewed  proud  May  Bell  in  her  beautiful  clothes 

Down  from  the  wide  branch,  quick  as  thought  something  fell 

"Who  made  him  a  drunkard?      Will  you  answer,  May  Bell? 

"Or  shall  I  tell  the  story?     I  know  it  all  through; 
John  Bell  made  a  drunkard  of  poor  William  Drew! 
He  sells  him  the  rum  that's  destroying  his  life 
And  fast  making  beggars  of  children  and  wife!" 

As  he  led  Bessie  on,  down  the  mulberry  lane. 

May  looked  after  the  two  through  her  tears  of  shame. 

"Oh'  can  it  be  true,  then,  the  story  he  told? 

Does  my  father  make  drunkards  of  men  for  their  gold  ?" 


FA  VORI TE    SELEC  TIONS.  1 4 1 


DRIFTING. 


T.    B.    READ. 


IV  TY  soul  to-day- 


Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote. 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 

The  mountains  swim; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 

With  outstretched  hands, 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles, 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 


142  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff; 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls, 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals, 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day  so  mild 

Is  heaven's  own  child, 
With  earth  and  ocean  reconciled: 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail: 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  summer  sings  and  never  dies; 

O'erveiled  with  vines, 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  143 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid, 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  traffic  blows 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows: 

This  happier  one 

Its  course  has  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip! 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar'. 

With  dreamful   ey?c. 

My  spirit   lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise! 


144  JULIA    AXD    AXX1E     THOMAS' 

IF    ONLY. 


IF  only  in  my  dreams  I  once  might  see 
Thy  face,  though  thou  should  stand 
With  cold,  unreaching  hand, 
Nor  vex  thy  lips  to  break 
The  silence  with  a  word  for  my  love's  sake, 
Nor  turn  to  mine  thine  eyes, 
Serene  with  long  peace  of  Paradise, 
Vet,  henceforth,  life  would  be 
More  sweet,  not  wholly  bitter,  unto  me. 

If  only  I  might  know  for  verity, 
That  when  the  light  is  done 
Of  this  world's  sun, 
And  that  unknown,  long-sealed 
To  sound  and  sight  is  suddenly  revealed, 
That  thine  should  be  the  firsc  dear  voice  thereof, 
And  thy  dear  face  the  rest— O  love,  my   love! 

Then  coming  death  would  be 

Sweet,  ah,  most  sweet — not  bitter  unto  me. 


THE  SHEPHERD  DOG  OF  THE  PYRENEES. 

ELLEN    .MURRAY. 

1  TRAVELLER.      Begone,  you,  sir!     Here,  shepherd,  call  your 
dog' 
Shepherd.    Be  not  affrighted,  madame,  poor  Pierrot 
Will  do  no  harm       I  know  his  voice  is  gruff, 
But,  then,  his  heart  is  good 

Trav  Well,  call  him,  then. 

I  do  not  like  his  looks.      He's  growling:  now. 


FAVORITE   SELECTIONS.  145 

Shep.    Madame  had  better  drop  that  stick.      Pierrot, 
He  is  as  good  a  Christian  as  myself 
And  does  not  like  a  stick 

Trav.  Such  a  fierce  look! 

And  such  great  teeth! 

Shep  Ah,  bless  poor  Pierrot  s  teeth! 

Good  cause  have  I  and  mine  to  bless  those  teeth 
Come  here,  my  Pierrot!     Would  you  like  to  hear, 
Madame,  what  Pierrot's  teeth  have  done  for  me? 

Trav.    Torn  a  gaunt  wolf,  I'll  warrant. 

Shep.  Do  you  see 

On  that  high  ledge  a  cross  of  wood  that  stands 
Against  the  sky  ? 

Trav.  Just  where  the  cliff  goes  down 

A  hundred  fathoms  sheer,  a  wall  of  rock 
To  where  the  river  foams  along  its  bed? 
I've  often  wondered  who  was  brave  to  plant 
A  cross  on  such  an  edge. 

Shep.  Myself,  madame. 

That  the  good  God  might  know  I  gave  Him  thanks. 
One  night,  it  was  November,  dark  and  thick 
The  fog  came  down,  when,  as  I  reached  my  house, 
Marie  came  running  out;  our  little  one, 
Our  four-year  Louis,  so  she  cried,  was  lost. 
I  called  Pierrot,  "  Go  seek  him,  find  my  boy!" 
And  off  he  went.      Marie  ran  crying  loud 
To  call  the  neighbors.      They  and  I,  we  searched 
All  that  dark  night.      I  called  Pierrot  in  vain; 
Whistled  and  called,  and  listened  for  his  voice; 
He  always  came  or  barked  at  my  first  word. 
But  now  he  answered  not.      When  day  at  last 
Broke,  and  the  gray  fog  lifted,  there  I  saw 
On  that  high  ledge  against  the  dawning  light 
My  little  one  asleep,  sitting  so  near 


146  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

That  edge  that,  as  I  looked,  his  red  barette 
Fell  from  his  nodding  head  down  the  abyss 
And  there,  behind  him,  crouched  Pierrot;   his  teeth, 
His  good,  strong  teeth,  clinched  in  the  jacket  brown, 
Holding  the  child  in  safety.      With  wild  bounds 
Swift  as  the  gray  wolf's  own  I  climbed  the  steep, 
And  as  I  reached  them  Pierrot  beat  his  tail 
And  looked  at  me,  so  utterly  distressed, 
With  eyes  that  said,  "  Forgive,  I  could  not  speak," 
But  never  loosed  his  hold,  till  my  dear  rogue 
Was  safe  within  my  arms. — Ah,  ha!   Pierrot, 
Madame  forgives  your  barking  and  your  teeth, 

I  knew  she  would. 
Trav.    Come  here,  Pierrot,  good  dog! 
Come  here,  poor  fellow,  faithful  friend  and  true, 
Come,  come,  be  friends  with  me! 


THE    MESSAGE. 


ADELAIDE    A.    PROCTER. 


I    HAD   a  message   to  send  her,  to  her   whom   my  soul    loves 
best, 
But  I  had  my  task  to  finish,  and  she  had  gone  to  rest 
To  rest  in  the  far,  bright  heaven — oh!   so  far  away  from   here' 
It   was  vain   to  speak   to  my  darling,  for  I   knew  she  could  not 
hear. 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her,  so  tender,  and  true,  and  sweet, 
I  longed  for  an  angel  to  bear  it,  and  lay  it  down  at  her  feet 
I   placed   it,    one  summer's  evening,  on   a  little  white  cloud's 

breast . 
But  it  taded  in  golden  splendor,  and  died   in  the  crimson  west. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  147 

I   gave   it  the  lark   next   morning,  and   I   watched   it  soar  and 

soar; 
But  its  pinions  grew  faint  and  weary,  and  it  fluttered  to  earth 

once  more. 
I  cried,  in  my   passionate   longing:   "Has  the  earth   no  angel 

friend 
Who  will  carry  my  love  the  message  my  heart  desires  to  send  ?' 

Then  I  heard  a  strain  of  music,  so  mighty,  so  pure,  so  dear, 
That   my  very  sorrow  was  silent,  and  my  heart   stood   still   to 

hear. 
It  rose  in  harmonious  rushing  of  mingled  voices  and  strings, 
And  I  tenderly  laid  my  message  on  music's  outspread  wings 

And  I  heard  it  float  farther  and  farther,  in  sound  more   perfect 

than  speech, 
Farther  than  sight  can  follow,  farther  than  soul  can  reach 
And   I  know  that  at   last    my  message    has  passed   through  the 

golden  gate; 
So  my  heart  is  no  longer  restless,  and  I  am  content  to  wait 


NEVER  TROUBLE  TROUBLE. 

FANNIE    WINDSOR 

MY  good  man  is  a  clever  man,  which  no  one  will  gainsay; 
He  lies  awake  to  plot  and  plan  'gainst  lions  in  the  way, 
While  I  without  a  thought  of  ill,  sleep  sound  enough  for  three 
For  I  never  trouble  trouble  till  trouble  troubles  me. 

A  holiday  we  never  fix  but  he  is  sure  'twill  ram; 
And  when  the  sky  is  clear  at  six   he  knows  it  won't  remain 
He  is  always  prophesying  ill  to  which   I  won't  agree, 
For  I  never  trouble  trouble  till  trouble  troubles  me. 


148  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     I  I/O  MAS' 

The  wheat  will  never   show  a  top — but   soon    how    green    the 

field! 
We  will  not  harvest  half  a  crop — yet  have  a  famous  yield! 
It  will  not  sell,  it  never  will!  but  I   will  wait  and  see; 
For  I  never  trouble  trouble  till  trouble  troubles  me 

We  have  a  good   share   of   worldly   gear,    and    fortune  seem? 

secure, 
Yet  my  good  man  is  full  of  fear — misfortune's  coming  sure! 
He  points  me  out  the  almshouse  hill,  but  cannot  make  me  see, 
For  I  never  trouble  trouble  till  trouble  troubles  me. 

He  has  a  sort  of  second   sight,  and  when  the  fit    is  strong, 
He  sees  beyond  the  good  and  right  the  evil  and  the  wrong. 
Heaven's  cup  of  joy  he'll  surely  spill  unless  I  with  him  be, 
For  I  never  trouble  trouble  till  trouble  troubles  me! 


MAKE  th 
Culth 


SELF-CULTURE, 
the  best  of    yourself.      Watch   and   plant    and    sow. 


onward!  Persevere!  Perhaps  you  cannot  bear  such  lordly 
fruit,  nor  yet  such  rare,  rich  flowers  as  others;  but  what  of 
that?     Bear  the  best  you  can.      'Tis  all  God  asks. 

Your  flowers  may  only  be  the  daisies  and  buttercups  of  life 
— the  little  words  and  smiles  and  handshakes  and  helpful 
looks;  but  we  love  these  flowers  full  well.  We  may  stop  to 
look  at  a  tulip's  gorgeous  colors,  and  admire  the  creamy  white- 
ness of  a  noble  lily;  but  it  is  to  the  little  flowers  we  turn  with 
tenderest  thought.  We  watch  for  snowdrops  with  longing 
eyes,  and  scent  the  fragrance  of  the  violet  with  a  keen  delight. 
So  let  your  life  grow  sweet-scented  with  all  pleasant  thoughts 
and  gentle  words  and  kindly  deeds. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  *49 


HERE    OR   THERE. 


HENRY    BURTON. 


MAY  God  be  near  thee,  friend, 
When  we  are  far  away ; 
May  His  smile  cheer  thee,  friend, 

And  make  all  light  as  day: 
Look  up!   the  sky,  the  stars  above 
Will  whisper  to  thee  of  His  changeless  love. 


In  distant,  desert  places 

The  "  Mounts  of  God"  are  found; 
His  sky  the  world  embraces, 

And  makes  it  "holy  ground." 
The  heart  that  serves,  and  loves,  and  clings, 
Hears  everywhere  the  rush  of  angel  wings. 

To  God  the  "there"  is  here; 

All  spaces  are  His  own; 
The  distant  and  the  near 

Axe  shadows  of  His  throne. 
All  times  are  His,  the  new,  the  old — 
What  boots  it  where  life's  little  tale  is  told? 

'Tis  not  for  us  to  choose; 

We  listen  and  obey: 
'Tis  His  to  call  and  use; 

'Tis  ours  to  serve  and  pray. 
It  matters  little,  here  or  there, 
God's  world  is  wide,  and  heaven  is  everywhere. 


150  JULIA    A\rD    A.Y.Y/E     THOMAS' 

We  cannot  go  so  far 

That  home  is  out  of  sight  , 
The  morn,  the  evening  star, 

Will  say,  "Good-day'"  "Good-night!" 
The  heart  that  loves  will  never  be  alone; 
All  earth,  all  heaven,  it  reckons  as  its  own! 


THEN    AG'IN— . 


S.    W.    FOSS. 


JIM  BOWKER,  he  said,  ef  he'd  had  a  fair  show, 
And  a  big  enough  town  for  his  talents  to  grow, 
And  the  least  bit  of  assistance  in  hoein'  his  row, 

Jim  Bowker,  he  said, 
He'd  fill  the  world  full  of  the  sound  of  his  name, 
An'  climb  the  top  round  in  the  ladder  of  fame. 
It  may  have  been  so ; 

I  dunno; 
Jest  so  it  might  been; 
Then  ag'in — . 

But  he  had  tarnal  luck;  everythin'  went  ag'in  him, 

The  arrears  of  fortune  they  alius    ud  pin  him; 

So  he  didn't  get  a  chance  to  show  what  was  in  him. 

Jim  Bowker,  he  said, 
Ef  he'd  had  a  fair  show,  you  couldn't  tell  where  he'd  come, 
An'  the  feats  he'd  a-done,  an'  the  heights  he'd  a-clumb. 

It  may  have  been  so ; 
I  dunno; 

Jest  so  it  might  been; 
Then  ag'in — . 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  151 

But  we're  all  like  Jim  Bowker,  thinks  I,  more  or  less, 
Charge  fate  for  our  bad  luck,  ourselves  for  success, 
An'  give  fortune  the  blame  for  all  out  distress, 

As  Jim  Bowker,  he  said, 
Ef  it  hadn't  been  for  luck  an'  misfortune  an'  sich, 
We  might  a-been  famous,  and  might  a-been  rich. 

It  might  be  jest  so; 
I  dunno ; 

Jest  so  it  might  been  • 
Then  ag'in — . 


REGRETS    OF    DRUNKENNESS. 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 


[Cassjo,  having  been  artfully  plied  with  liquor  by  Iago  till  he  was  drunk,  en 
gaged  in  a  brawl,  after  which  he  was  dismissed  by  his  general,  Othello, 
with  the  words;  "Cassio,  I  love  thee;  but  never  more  be  officer  of  mine." 
Iago.  wishing  to  make  Othello  jealous  of  Cassio,  here  persuades  him 
to  appeal  to  Desdemona,  Othello's  wife,  to  intercede  for  him.] 

IAGO.    What!   be  you  hurt,  Lieutenant? 
Cassio.    Past  all  surgery! 

Iago.    Marry,  heaven  forbid! 

Cas.  Reputation!  reputation!  reputation!  Oh,  I  have  lost 
my  reputation!  I  have  lost  the  immortal  part  of  myself,  and 
what  remains  is  bestial.      My  reputation,  Iago,  my  reputation! 

Iago.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  I  thought  you  had  received 
some  bodily  wound;  there  is  more  offence  in  that  than  in  repu- 
tation. Reputation  is  an  idle  and  most  false  imposition,  oft 
got  without  merit,  and  lost  without  deserving.  You  have  lost 
no  reputation  at  all,  unless  you  repute  yourself  such  a  loser. 
What,  man !  there  are  ways  to  recover  the  General  again.      You 


15 2  J^LIA    AND    AXXIE     THOMAS' 

are  but  now  cast  in  his  mood,  a  punishment  more  in  policy  than 
in  malice;  sue  to  him  again,  and  he's  yours. 

Cas.  I  will  rather  sue  to  be  despised  than  to  deceive  so  good 
a  commander  with  so  light,  so  drunken,  and  so  indiscreet  an 
officer.  Drunk,  and  speak  parrot,  and  squabble,  swagger, 
swear,  and  discourse  fustian  with  one's  own  shadow'  Oh, 
thou  invisible  spirit  of  wine!  if  thou  hadst  no  name  to  be 
known  by,  let  us  call  thee — devil' 

Iago.  What  was  he  that  you  followed  with  your  sword? 
What  had  he  done  to  you  ? 

Cas.   I  know  not. 

Iago.    Is  it  possible? 

Cas.  I  remember  a  mass  of  things,  but  nothing  distinctly;  a 
quarrel,  but  nothing  wherefore.  Oh,  that  men  should  put  an 
enemy  in  their  mouths  to  steal  away  their  brains'  That  we 
should,  with  joy,  revel,  pleasure,  and  applause,  transform  our- 
selves into  beasts! 

Iago.  Why,  but  you  are  now  well  enough.  How  came  you 
thus  recovered  ? 

Cas.  It  has  pleased  the  devil  Drunkenness  to  give  place  to  the 
devil  Wrath;  one  imperfection  shows  me  another,  to  make  me 
frankly  despise  myself. 

Iago.  Come,  you  are  too  severe  a  moraler!  As  the  time,  the 
place,  and  the  condition  of  this  country  stands,  I  could  heartily 
wish  this  had  not  befallen;  but  since  it  is  as  it  is,  mend  it  for 
your  own  good. 

Cas.  I  will  ask  him  for  my  place  again;  he  shall  tell  me  I 
am  a  drunkard!  Had  I  as  many  mouths  as  Hydra,  such  an 
answer  would  stop  them  all  To  be  now  a  sensible  man,  by 
and  by  a  fool,  and  presently  a  beast!  Oh,  strange!  Every 
inordinate  cup  is  unblessed,  and  the  ingredient  is  a  devil. 

Iago.  Come,  come!  good  wine  is  a  good  familiar  creature, 
if  it  be  well  used;  exclaim  no  more  against  it,  and,  good 
Lieutenant,  I  think  you  think  I  love  you'? 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  15  3 

Cas.    I  have  well  approved  it,  sir.      I  drunk' 

Iago.  You,  or  any  man  living,  may  be  drunk  some  time, 
man'  I'll  tell  you  what  you  shall  do.  Our  General's  wife  is 
now  the  General — 1  may  say  so  in  this  respect,  for  that  he  hath 
devoted  and  given  up  himself  to  the  contemplation,  mark,  and 
denotement  of  her  parts  and  graces  Confess  yourself  freely 
to  her,  importune  her;  she'll  help  to  put  you  in  your  place 
again.  She  is  of  so  free,  so  kind,  so  apt,  so  blessed  a  disposi- 
tion, that  she  holds  it  a  vice  in  her  goodness  not  to  do  more 
than  she  is  requested.  This  broken  joint  between  you  and  her 
husband,  entreat  her  to  splinter;  and,  my  fortunes  against  any 
lay  worth  naming,  this  break  of  your  love  shall  grow  stronger 
than  it  was  before. 

Cas.   You  advise  me  well. 

Iago.    I  protest,  in  the  sincerity  of  love  and  honest  kindness. 

Cas.  I  think  it  freely;  and,  betimes  in  the  morning,  I  will 
beseech  the  virtuous  Desdemona  to  undertake  for  me.  I  am 
desperate  of  my  fortunes  if  they  check  me  here 

Iago.  You  are  in  the  right.  Good-night,  Lieutenant!  I 
must  to  watch. 

Cas.    Good-night,  honest  Iago! 


DUTY. 


REV.    ALFRED    J.    HOUGH. 


SPEAK   the  word  God   bids  thee'      No  other  word  can  reach 
The  chords  that  wait  in  silence  the  coming  of  thy  speech. 

Do  the  work  God  bids  thee!     One — only  one  still  loom 
Awaits  thy  touch  and  tending  in  all  this  lower  room. 

Sing  the  song  God  bids  thee '     The  heart  of  earth's  great  throng 
Needs  for  its  perfect  solace  the  music  of  thy  song. 


154  J'LIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


IF   THERE    BE   GLORY. 


MAXWELL    GREY. 


IF  there  be  glory  in  the  sun, 
If  splendor  on  the  sea, 
Sweet  music  in  all  rills  that  run, 
Great  God,  it  is  of  Thee. 

Thy  splendor  broods  on  icy  peaks 

The  torrent's  thunder  fills; 
It  is  Thy  majesty  that  speaks 

Among  the  lonely  hills. 

The  sweetest  spring-flower  ever  blushed 

On  brightest  morn  of  May, 
The  richest  bird-song  ever  gushed 

At  rosiest  shut  of  day ; 

The  maiden  moon  that  strayeth  lone 

And  pensive  through  the  sky, 
Unloosing  from  her  silver  zoxie 

Her  largesse  silently; 

The  solemn  majesty  of  night, 

Its  stillness  and  its  stars, 
The  glory  when,  in  growing  light, 

The  crimson  day  unbars — 

All  could  not  charm,  except  some  thought 

From  Thee  within  them  stirred; 
They  touch  man's  soul,  for  Thou  hast  wrought 

Their  beauty  by  Thy  word. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.     '  155 

If  there  be  glory  in  the  sun, 

If  splendor  on  the  sea, 
Sweet  music  in  all  rills  that  run, 

Great  God,  it  is  of  Thee. 

God  thought:  worlds  rolled  in  sudden  space; 

He  spake,  and  life  was  there; 
The  universe  in  His  embrace 

Reposes  and  is  fair. 


LIFE. 


ANNIE    THOMAS. 


NOT  by  the  years  we  live, 
But  by  the  good  we  do  to  those  around, 
Should  life  computed  be. 
Not  by  the  wealth   attained 
Should  we  possession  count,  but  by  that  given 
To  aid  humanity — 
The  weaker  portion — brothers  all — 
Oft  tempted  and  oft  yielding  through 
Their  kindly  hearts  to  wrong. 
These  to  lead  back  once  more 
With  firm  but  gentle  hand — by  loving  word 
And  voice — taught  to  be  strong. 
To  clear  the  way  they  tread 
Of  sin,  temptation,  and  to  aid  them  to 
The  higher  life  attain — 
No  nobler  mission  nor 

More  honored  work  hath  man  in  life  than  this. 
And  no  more  worthy  aim. 


156  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


O'CONNOR'S    CHILD. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


(C  X     "HERO's  bride!  this  desert  bower, 

A      It  ill  befits  thy  gentle  breeding- 
And  wherefore  dost  thou  love  this  flower 

Xo  call,  'My  love  lies  bleeding?'  ,: 
This  purple  flower  my  tears  have  nursed; 

A  hero's  blood  supplied  its  bloom: 
I  love  it,  for  it  was  the  first 

That  grew  on  Connocht  Moran's  tomb. 
Oh!  hearken,  stranger,  to  my  voice! 
This  desert  mansion  is  my  choice! 
And  blest,  though  fatal,  be  the  star 
That  led  me  to  its  wilds  afar. 
For  here  these  pathless  mountains  free 
Gave  shelter  to  my  love  and  me ; 
And  every  rock  and  every  stone 
Bore  witness  that  he  was  my  own. 
O'Connor's  child,  I  was  the  bud 

Of  Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory; 
But  woe  to  them  that  wrapt  in  blood 

The  tissue  of  my  story! 
Still  as  I  clasp  my  burning  brain, 
•  A  death-scene  rushes  on  my  sight , 
It  rises  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

The  bloody  feud — the  fatal  night, 
When,  chafing  Connocht  Moran's  scorn. 
They  called  my  hero  basely  born; 
And  bade  him  choose  a  meaner  bride 
Than  from  O'Connor's  house  of  pride. 


PA  t  'OR J  TE    SELL  C  7 IONS  t  c  7 

Glory  (they  said)  and  power  and  honor 
Were  in  the  mansion  of  O  Connor; 
But  he.  my  loved  one.   bore  in  field 
A  humb'er  crest,  a  meaner  shield. 

Ah,  brothers'   what  did  it  avail, 

That  fiercely  and  triumphantly 
Ye  fought  the  English  ot  the  Pale, 

And  stemmed  De  Bourgo  s  chivalry? 
And  what  was  it  to  love  and  me, 

That  barons  by  youi  standard  rode; 
Or  beal -fires  for  your  jubilee 

Upon  a  hundred  mountains  glowed? 
What  though  the  lords  of  tower  and  dome 
From  Shannon  to  the  North  Sea  foam — 
Thought  ye  your  iron  hands  of  pride 
Could  break  the  knot  that  love  had  tied? 
No.      Let  the  eagle  change  his  plume. 
The  leaf  its  hue.  the  flower  its  bloom; 
But  ties  around  this  heart  were  spun, 
That  could  not,  would  not    be  undone1 

At  bleating  of  the  wild  watch-fold 

Thus  sang  my  love;  "  Oh,  come  with  me' 
Our  bark  is  on  the  lake,  behold 

Our  steeds  are  fastened  to  the  tree 
Come  far  from  Castle  Connor  s  clans; 

Come  with  thy  belted  forestere. 
And  I,  beside  the  lake  of  swans, 

Shall  hunt  for  thee  the  fallow-deer; 
And  build  thy  hut,  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild-fowl  and  the  honey-comb; 
And  berries  from  the  wood  provide, 
And  play  my  clarshech  by  thy  side. 


158  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Then  come,  my  love!"     How  could  I  stay? 
Our  nimble  stag-hounds  tracked  the  way, 
And  1  pursued,  by  moonless  skies, 
The  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes. 

And  fast  and  far,  before  the  star 

Of  day-spring,  rushed  we  through  the  glade, 
And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  bawn 

Of  Castle  Connor  fade 
Sweet  was  to  us  the  hermitage 

Of  this  unploughed,  untrodden  shore; 
Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage, 

For  man's  neglect  we  loved  it  more, 
And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 
To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear; 
While  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress, 
Would  sing  to  him  in  happiness. 
But.  oh,  that  midnight  of  despair, 
When  I  was  doomed  to  rend  my  hair! 
The  night,  to  me.  of  shrieking  sorrow! 
The  night,  to  him.   that  had  no  morrow  1 

When  all  was  hushed  at  eventide, 

1  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle: 
''  Be  hushed!"  my  Connocht  Moran  cried. 

"  'Tis  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle," 
Alas'-   'twas  not  the  eyry's  sound; 

Their  bloody  bands  had  tracked  us  out; 
Up-listening  starts  our  couchant  hound — 

And,  hark!   again,  that  nearer  shout 
Brings  faster  on  the  murderers. 
"Spare — spare  him — Brazil — Desmond  fierce!"' 
In  vain — no  voice  the  adder  charms; 
Their  weapons  crossed  my  sheltering  arms- 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  159 

Another's  sword  has  laid  him  low — 

Another's  and  another's; 
And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow — 

Ah.  me'   it  was  a  brother's! 
Yes,  when  his  moanings  died  away, 
Their  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 
And  o'er  his  burial  turf  they  trod, 
And  1  beheld— O  God'   O  God!— 
His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod. 

Warm  in  his  death -wounds  sepulchered, 

Alas!   my  warrior's  spirit  brave 
Nor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla  heard, 

Lamenting,    soothe  his  grave. 
Dragged  to  their  hated  mansion  back, 

How  long  in  thraldom's  grasp  I  lay 
I  know  not,  for  my  soul  was  black, 

And  knew  no  change  of  night  or  day. 

But  heaven,  at  last,  my  soul's  eclipse 

Did  with  a  vision  bright  inspire; 
I  woke  and  felt  upon  my  lips 

A  prophetess'  fire. 
Thrice  in  the  east  a  war-drum  beat, 

I  heard  the  Saxon's  trumpet  sound, 
And  ranged,  as  to  the  judgment-seat, 

My  guilty,  trembling  brothers  round. 
Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came  : 
For  now  De  Bourgo's  sword  and  flame 
Had  ravaged  Ulster's  boundaries, 
And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 
The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 
Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay, 


\Co  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS 

That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look. 

As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 
I  gave — that  every  bosom  shook 

Beneath  its  iron  mail. 


"And  go:  '    (I  cried)  "the  combat  seek. 

Ye  hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek, 

Go'   and  return  no  more' 
For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 

Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 
The  banner  with  victorious  hand. 

Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unrolled.'' 

0  stranger'  by  my  country's  loss! 
And  by  my  love1   and  by  the  cross! 

1  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  severed  nature's  yoke, 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood, 

And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood; 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  given, 
To  speak  the  malison  of  heaven. 

They  would  have  crossed  themselves  all  mute; 

They  would  have  prayed  to  burst  the  spell ; 
But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot 

Each  hand  down  powerless  fell! 
"  And  go  to  Athunree!"    (I  cried) 
"  High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride' 
But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls 
The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls! 
Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 
Shall  float  as  high  as  mountain  fern! 
Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know; 


FA  VORI 7  F    SEE  E  C  TIONS.  1 6 1 

The  nettles  on  your  hearth  shall  grow! 
Dead,   as  the  green  oblivious  flood 

That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blood! 

Away!  away  to  Athunree! 
Where,  downward,  when  the  sun  shall  fall, 
The  raven's  wing  shall  be  your  pall! 
And  not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 
The  visor  from  your  dying  face!" 

A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome 

Suspended  till  my  curse  was  given, 
Soon  as  it  passed  these  lips  of  foam, 

Pealed  in  the  blood-red  heaven. 
Dire  was  the  look  that  o'er  their  backs 

The  angry  parting  brothers  threw: 
But  now,  behold!   like  cataracts, 

Come  down  the  hills  in  view 
O'Connor's  plumed  partisans; 
Thrice  ten  Kilnagorvian  clans 

Were  marching  to  their  doom. 
A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  tossed, 
A  flash  of  lightning  o'er  them  crossed, 

And  all  again  was  gloom! 

Stranger!   I  fled  the  home  of  grief, 

At  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  to  fall ; 
I  found  the  helmet  of  my  chief, 

His  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wall, 
And  took  it  down,  and  vowed  to  rove    . 

This  desert  place  a  huntress  bold; 
Nor  would  I  change  my- buried  love 

For  any  heart  of  living  mold. 


It>2  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMA 

No!  for  I  am  a  hero's  child; 

I'll  hunt  my  quarry  in  the  wild; 

And  still  my  home  this  mansion  make, 

Of  all  unheeded  and  unheeding, 
And  cherish  for  my  warrior's  sake — 

"The  (lower  of  love  lies  bleedinef." 


BE    STILL. 


REV.    DWIGHT    WILLIAMS. 


a 


F)E  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God;" 


The  way  is  dark  and  wild 
Through  which  thou  goest,  my  child; 

I  cannot  promise  thee  a  stormless  path, 
For  lightning's  scath 

And  thunder's  roar  the  pilgrim's  journey  hath. 

"  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God;" 

The  elements  are  mine; 

It  is  a  hand  divine 
That -guides  the  whirlwind  in  its  awful  course; 

The  mystic  force 
Of  hail  and  tempest  finds  in  me  its  source. 

"Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God;" 

In  danger's  hour  be  calm; 

This  is  thy  secret  balm, 
To  know  that  thou  art  safe  when  I  command; 

Then  only  stand 
And  see  deliverance  by  my  mighty  hand. 


FA  FORI  TE    SE  LE  C  TIONS.  1 6  3 

"Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God;" 

Ask  not  the  reason  why 

I  weave  such  mystery 
Through  all  the  warp  of  thy  frail  life  below, 

For  thou  shalt  know. 
And  read  the  plan  in  heaven's  serener  glow. 

"Be  still,  and  know  that  I   am  God," 

Through  storms  and  fears  be  still ; 

Only  thy  part  fulfil, 
And  as  thou  walkest  I  will   shelter  thee; 

Thy  foes  shall  flee. 
And  thou  shalt  journey  all  the  way  with  me. 

"Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God;" 

'Twill  be  enough  at   last, 

When  all  thy  warfare's  past, 
Star-crowned  thy  head  and  in  thy  hand  a  palm, 

To  sing  thy  psalm 
Where  storms  of  earth  end  in  eternal  calm. 


GOLDEN-ROD. 


IN  olden  davs  the  sunlight  stept  down  to  the  earth  below. 
Across  the  fields  and  hedges  crept  all  noiselessly  and  slow: 
And  where  it  passed  the  shadows  fled  swift  speeding  far  away, 
As  from  the  gateway  overhead  came  down  the  light  of  day. 

But  as  along  a  lane  it  passed,   it  weary  was  and  slept, 
And  slumber's  tetters  held  it  fast  while  night  her  vigil  kept, 
And  when  the  morning's  couriers  came   in  velvet  buskins  shod, 
Where  last  was  seen  the  sunlight's  flame  were  shafts  of  golden- 
rod. 


164  JULIA    AXD    AXX1E     THOMAS' 

ONE   OF    MANY. 


AT, ICE    CARY 


BECAUSE  I  have  not  done  the  things  I  know 
I  ought  to  do,  my  very  soul  is  sad; 
And,  furthermore,  because  that  I  have  had 
Delights  that  should  have  made  to  overflow 
My  cup  of  gladness,  and  have  not  been  glad. 

All  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  poor  I  live; 

My  house,  my  friend,  with  heavy  heart  I  see 
As  if  that  mine  they  were  not  meant  to  be; 

For  of  the  sweetness  of  the  things  I  have 
A  churlish  conscience  dispossesses  me. 

I  do  desire,  nay,  long,  to  put  my  powers 
To  better  service  than  I  yet  have  done — 
Not  hither,  thither,  without  purpose  run, 

And  gather  just  a  handful  of  the  flowers 
And  catch  a  little  sunlight  of  the  sun, 

Lamenting  all  the  night  and  all  the  day 
Occasion  lost,  and  losing  in  lament 
The  golden  chances  that  I  know  were  meant 

For  wiser  uses — asking  overpay 

When  nothing  has  been  earned,  and  all  was  lent; 

Keeping  in  dim  and  desolated  ways 

And  where  the  wild  winds  whistle  loud  and  shrill 
Through  leafless  bushes,  and  the  birds  are  still, 

And  where  the  lights  are  lights  of  other  days — 
A  sad  insanity  overmastering  will. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  165 

And  saddest  of  the  sadness  is  to  know 
It  is  not  fortune's  fault,  but  only  mine, 
That  far  away  the  hills  of  roses  shine, 

And  far  away  the  pipes  of  pleasure  blow, 
That  we,  and  not  our  stars,  our  fates  assign. 


HERVE    RIEL. 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


ON  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two, 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French — woe  to  France! 
And,  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  through  the  blue, 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks  pursue 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the  Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

'Twas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in  full  chase, 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship,  Damfreville; 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small,  twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place,  "  Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 
Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us  quick — or,  quicker 
still, 

Here's  the  English  can  and  will!" 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leaped  on  board; 
"Why,  what   hope   or   chance   have   ships   like   these  to   pass?" 

laughed  they; 
"Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage  scarred  and 

scored, 
Shall  the  'Formidable'  here,  with  her  twelve  and  eighty  guns, 

Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  narrow  way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty  tons, 


1 66  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

And  with  flow  at  full  besides   (now  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide) 
Reach  the  mooring?     Rather  say,  while  rock   stands  or  water 
runs, 

Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay!" 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight;  brief  and  bitter  the  debate: 
"Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you  have  them  take 

in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound  ?     Better  run  the  ships  aground !" 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech.) 
"Not  a  minute  more  to  wait!   let  the  captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the  beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 

"Give  the  word!"     But  no  such  word  was  ever  spoke  or  heard; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all  these — 
A  captain  ?     A  lieutenant?     A  mate— first,  second,  third? 
No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet  with  his  betters  to  compete! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for  the  fleet — 

A  poor  coasting  pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the  Croisickese. 

And   "What   mockery  or   malice    have  we   here?"  cries  Flerve 
Riel' 
"  Are  you   mad,  you   Malouins?     Are  you  cowards,  fools,  or 
rogues  ? 
Talk   to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the   soundings, 

tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 

'Tvvixt  the   offing  here  and   Greve,    where   the   river  disem- 
bogues ? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?     Is  it  love  the  lying's  for? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day,  have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  167 

"Burn  the  fleet,  and  ruin   France?     That  were  worse  than  fifty 

Hogues! 
Sirs,  they  know  I   speak  the  truth!      Sirs,  believe   me  there's   a 

way! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 
Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer,  get  this  'Formidable'   clear, 

Make  the  others  follow  mine, 
And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I  know  well, 
Right  to   Solidor,  past   Greve,    and   there   lay    them   safe    and 

sound ; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave — keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground — ■ 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life:  here's  my  head!"  cries   Herve 

Riel. 


Not  a  minute  more  to  wait.      "  Steer  us  in, then, small  and  great! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,    save   the   squadron!"  cried   its 
chief. 

"Captains,  give  the  sailor  place!    he  is  admiral,  in  brief." 

Still   the  north  wind,  by  God's  grace!   see  the  noble  fellow's 
face 

As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound,  clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 

Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  seas  pro- 
found ! 

See,  safe  through  shoal   and  rock,  how  they  follow  in  a   flock! 

Not  a  ship. that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the  ground, 
Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 

The  peril,  see,  is  past,  all  are  harbored  to  the  last, 

And  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollos  "  Anchor'" — sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come,  too  late. 


So  the  storm  subsides  to  calm: 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave  on  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve, 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 


1 68  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

"Just  our  rapture  to  enhance,  let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance,  as   they  cannonade  away! 
'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the  Ranee!" 
Now  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each   captain's  countenance! 
Outburst  all  with  one  accord,  "This  is  paradise  for  hell! 
■  Let  France,  let  France's  king 

Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing!" 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word,  "  Herve   Riel," 

As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more. 
Not  a  symptom  of  surprise  in  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
just  the  same  man  as  before. 


Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend,  I   must   speak   out  at  the 
end, 
Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard: 

Praise  is  deeper  than   the   lips;  you   have  saved  the  King  his 
ships, 
You  must  name  your  own  reward. 

'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 

Demand  whate'er  you  will,  France  remains  your  debtor  still. 

Ask  to  heart's  content,  and  have!   or  my  name's  not   Damfre- 
ville." 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke  on  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through  those  frank  eyes  of  Breton 

blue : 
"Since  I   needs  must  say  my  say,    since    on  board  the  duty's 

done, 
And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it  but  a  run  ? — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may — since  the  others  go  ashore — 

Come!     A  good  whole  holiday' 
Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle  Aurore!" 
That  he  asked,  and  that  he  got — nothing  more. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS  169 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost     not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 
In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell ; 

Not  a  head  in  white  and  black  on  a  single  fishing-smack, 

In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to  wrack 
All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  England  bore  the 

bell. 
Go  to  Paris;  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank ; 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herve  Riel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse,  Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse' 
In  my  verse.  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save   the   squadron,    honor    France,    love  thy    wife,    the    Belle 
Aurore ! 


TWO    TOWNS. 


BROTHER'   you  with  growl  and  frown, 
Why  don't  you  move  from  Grumbletown, 
Where  everything  is  tumbled  down 

And  life  is  always  dreary? 
Move  over  into  Gladville,  where 
Your  face  will  don  a  happy  air 
And  lay  aside  the  look  of  care 
For  smiles  all  bright  and  cheery 

In  Grumbletown  there's  not  a  joy 
But  has  a  shadow  ot  alloy 
That  will  its  happiness  destroy 
And  make  you  to  regret  it. 


170  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

In  Gladville  they  have  not  a  care 
But  what  it  looks  inviting  there, 
And  has  about  it  something  fair 
That  makes  them  pleased  to  get  it. 

'Tis  strange  how  different  these  towns 

Of  ours  are       Good  cheer  abounds 

In  one,  and  grewsome  growls  and  frowns 

Are  always  in  the  other 
If  you  your  skies  of  ashen  gray 
Would  change  for  sunny  smiles  of   May, 
From  Grumbletown    oh    haste  away, 

Move  into  Gladville    brother! 


THE    LEAK    IN    THE    DIKE. 


PHCEBE    CARY 


THE  good  dame  looked  from  her  cottage 
At  the  close  of  the  pleasant  day, 
And  cheerily  called  to  her  little  son 

Outside  the  door  at  play 
"  Come.  Peter,  come'   I  want  you  to  go, 

While  there  is  light  to  see. 
To  the  hut  of  the  blind  old  man  who  lives 

Across  the  dike,  for  me. 
And  take  these  cakes  I  made  for  him  — 

They  are  hot  and  smoking  yet, 
You  have  time  enough  to  go  and  come 

Before  the  sun  is  sej.:' 
And  Peter  left  the  brother. 

With  whom  all  day  he  had  played. 
And  the  sister  who  had  watched  their  sports 

In  the  willow's  tender  shade; 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  171 

And  told  them  they'd  see  him  back  before 

They  saw  a  star  in  sight. 
Though  he  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  go 

In  the  very  darkest   night. 
For  he  was  a  brave,  bright  fellow, 

With  eye  and  conscience  clear 
He  could  do  whatever  a  boy  might  do. 

And  he  had  not  learned  to  fear. 
And  now  with  his  face  all  glowing, 

And  eyes  as  bright  as  the  day, 
With  the  thoughts  of  his  pleasant  errano, 

He  trudged  along  the  way; 
And  soon  his  joyous  prattle 

Made  glad  a  lonesome  place — 
Alas!   if  only  the  blind  old  man 

Could  have  seen  that  happy  face! 
Yet  he  somehow  caught  the  brightness 

Which  his  voice  and  presence  lent, 
And  he  felt  the  sunshine  come  and  go 

As  Peter  came  and  went. 
And  now,  as  the  day  was  sinking, 

And  the  winds  began  to  rise, 
The  mother  looked  from  her  door  again, 

Shading  her  anxious  eyes, 
And  saw  the  shadows  deepen 

And  birds  to  their  home  come  back, 
But  never  a  sign  of  Peter 

Along  the  level  track. 
But  she  said:   "  He  will  come  at  morning. 

So  I  need  not  fret  or  grieve — ■ 
Though  it  isn't  like  my  boy  at  all 

To  stay  without  my  leave.  ' 
But  where  was  the  child  delaying? 

On  the  homeward  way  was  he^. 


172 


JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

And  across  the  dike  while  the  sun  was  up 

An  hour  above  the  sea, 
He  was  stopping  now  to  gather  flowers, 

Now  listening  to  the  sound. 
As  the  angry  waters  dashed  themselves 

Against  their  narrow  bound. 
"Ah!   well  for  us,"  said  Peter. 

"  That  the  gates  are  good  and  strong, 
And  my  father  tends  them  carefully, 

Or  they  would  not  hold  you  long1 
You're  a  wicked  sea,"  said  Peter; 

"  I  know  why  you  fret  and  .chafe; 
You  would  like  to  spoil  our  lands  and  homes, 

But  our  sluices  keep  you  safe  " 
But  hark !  through  the  noise  of  waters 

Comes  a  low,  clear,  trickling  sound, 
And  the  child's  face  pales  with  terror. 

And  the  blossoms  drop  to  the  ground. 
He  is  up  the  bank  in  a  moment, 

And,  stealing  through  the  sand, 
He  sees  a  stream  not  yet  so  large 

As  his  slender,  childish  hand. 
"Tis  a  leak  in  the  dike1      He  is  but  a  boy, 

Unused  to  fearful  scenes, 
But,  young  as  he  is,  he  has  learned  to  know 

The  dreadful  thing  that  means. 
\  leak  in  the  dike1     The  stoutest  heart 

Grows  faint  that  cry  to  hear, 
And  the  bravest  man  in  all  the  land 

Turns  white  with  mortal  fear. 
For  he  knows  the  smallest  leak  may  grow 

To  a  flood  in  a  single  night, 
And  he  knows  the  strength  of  the  cruel  sea 

When  loosed  in  its  angry  might. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  V3 

And  the  boy !   he  has  seen  the  danger 

And,  shouting  a  wild  alarm, 
He  forces  back  the  weight  of  the  sea 

With  the  strength  of  his  single  arm! 
He  listens  for  the  joyful  sound 

Of  a  footstep  passing  nigh, 
And  lays  his  ear  to  the  ground,  to  catch 

The  answer  to  his  cry. 
And  he  hears  the  rough  winds  blowing, 

And  the  waters  rise  and  fall, 
But  never  an  answer  comes  to  him 

Save  the  echo  of  his  call. 
So,  faintly  calling  and  crying 

Till  the  sun  is  under  the  sea, 
Crying  and  moaning  till  the  stars 

Come  out  for  company, 
He  thinks  of  his  brother  and  sister, 

Asleep  in  their  safe  warm  bed; 
He  thinks  of  his  father  and  mother, 

Of  himself  as  dying — and  dead. 
And  of  how,  when  the  night  is  over, 

They  must  come  and  find  him  at  last; 
But  he  never  thinks  he  can  leave  the  place 

Where  duty  holds  him  fast. 
The  good  dame  in  the  cottage 

Is  up  and  astir  with  the  light,   ■ 
For  the  thought  of  her  little  Peter 

Has  been  with  her  all  the  night. 
And  now  she  watches  the  pathway, 

As  yesterday  eve  she  had  done; 
But  what  does  she  see  so  strange  and  black 

Against  the  rising  sun? 
Her  neighbors  are  bearing  between  them 

Something  straight  to  her  door. 


IU  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

Her  child  is  coming  home,  but  not 

As  he  ever  came  before! 
"He  is  dead,"  she  cries,  "my  darling!" 

And  the  startled  father  hears, 
And  comes  and  looks  the  way  she  looks, 

And  fears  the  thing  she  fears; 
Till  a  glad  shout  from  the  bearers 

Thrills  the  stricken  man  and  wife — 
"  Give  thanks,  for  your  son  has  saved  our  land, 

And  God  has  saved  his  life!" 
So  there  in  the  morning  sunshine 

They  knelt  about  the  boy; 
And  every  head  was  bared  and  bent 

In  tearful,  reverent  joy. 


THE    PAST    AND    THE    FUTURE. 


LUTHER    R.    MARSH. 


I  WOULD  not  backward  roll  the  tide  of  time, 
Though  freighted,  rich,  with  golden  memories, 
With  large  experience,  and  with  hosts  of  friends. 
The  past  is  past,  and  cannot  come  again, 
Sweet  as  it  was,  and  laden   with  all  joys — ■ 
Each  day  a  pleasure  and  each  morn  a  hope, — 
Yet  it  is  fruitless  to  recount  those  scenes. 
The  wise  men  of  the  past,  each  in  his  way, 
Gave  out  the  wisdom  fitted  for  his  time. 
But  we  have  sailed  away,  far  out  of  sight 
Of  all  their  maxims  and  their  sage  conundrums. 
The  Rising  Sun  we  need,  to  flood  his  light 
Upon  our  pathway  through  the  vast  unknown. 
Why  pore  we  o'er  the  history  of  time  gone, 
When  our  work  lies  in  time  that  is  to  come? 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  I7S 

Buckle  we  on  for  the  advancing  years; 

Not  ruminate  on  deeds  by  others  done. 

Nor  would  I  summon  from  their  buried  crypts 

To  reappear,  as  in  the  olden  time, 

The  forms  and  features  of  beloved  friends; 

But,  rather,  think  of  them  in  heavenly  homes, 

Girt  with  new  lustre  of  ethereal  guise. 

TunTwould  I,  rather,  to  the  time  ahead; 

For,  folded  there,  are  possibilities  of  fate. 

Forward,  not  backward,  will  my  eye  be  turned, 

Leaving  behind  the  joys  of  reminiscence, 

To  glimpse  the  greater  joys  of  bright  anticipation. 

The  past  is  dead  and  has  no  resurrection: 

The  future  glows  with  promises  of  God. 

I  will  not  pause  to  mourn  the  days  ill-spent, 

The  duty  oft  undone,  the  evil  done, 

But  coming  time  salute,  with  stern  resolve, 

To  entertain  no  word,  or  deed,  or  thought, 

Which  angels  would  not   welcome. 

Hail,  glorious  Future,  whose  unending  days 

Shall  fill  the  calends  of  eternity! 

And  thou,  O  Past!  thy  deeds  I  relegate 

Into  the  Lethe  of  forgotten  years ; 

Save  that  Bright  Presence  from  the  throne  on  high, 

The  way,  the  truth,  the  life,  the  mystery. 


SELF-DEPENDENCE. 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD. 


WEARY  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be. 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forward,  forward,  o'er  the  starlit  sea.- 


'70  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 

"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  np  have  calmed  me, 
Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end! 

"Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew ; 

Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you!" 

From  the  intense,  clear  star-sown  vault  of  heaven, 

Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  the  rustling  night  air  came  the  answer: 

"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are?     Live  as  they. 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see. 

These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silvered  roll; 

For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 

In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  voice!   long  since  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear: 

"  Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know  that  he 
Who -finds  himself  loses  his  misery!" 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  1 77 


MY    MISSION. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

T^ VERY  spirit    has    its    mission,"  say    the    transcendental 

-L/      crew, 
"This  is  mine,"  they  cry ;  "Eureka!   this  the  purpose  I  pursue; 
For  behold  a  god  hath  called  me  and  his  service  I  shall  do; 

"Brother,  seek  thy  calling  likewise;   thou  wert  destined  for  the 

same ; 
Sloth  is  sin,  and  toil  is  worship,  and  the  soul  demands  an  aim: 
Who  neglects  the  ordination,  he  shall  not  escape  the  flame." 

0  my   ears   are    dinned    and    wearied    with    the     clatter  of   the 

schools; 
Life  to  them  is  geometric,  and  they  act  by  line  and  rule — 
If  there  be  no  other  wisdom,  better  far  to  be  a  fool ! 

Better  far  the  honest  nature,  in  its  narrow  path  content, 
Taking  with  a  child's  acceptance   whatsoever  may   be  sent, 
Than  the  introverted  vision,  seeing  self  preeminent, 

For  the  spirit's  proper  freedom  by  itself  may  be  destroyed, 
Wasting,  like  the  young  Narcissus,  o'er  its  image  in  the  void; 
Even  virtue  is  not  virtue  when  too  consciously  enjoyed. 

1  am  sick  of  canting  prophets,  self-elected  kings  that  reign 
Over  herds  of  silly  subjects,  of  their  new  allegiance  vain; 
Preaching  labor,  preaching  duty,  preaching  love  with  lips  pro- 
fane. 

12 


178  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     7/IOMAS' 

With    the  holiest    things  they   tamper,    and  the  noblest   they 

degrade, 
Making  life  an  institution,  making  destiny  a  trade; 
But  the  honest  vice  is  better  than  the  saintship  they  parade. 

Native  goodness  is  unconscious,  asks  not  to  be  recognized; 

But  its  baser  affectation  is  a  thing  to  be  despised. 

Only  when  the  man  is  loyal  to  himself  shall  he  be  prized. 

Take  the  current  of  your  nature,  make  it  stagnant  if  you  will; 
Dam  it  up  to  drudge  forever  at  the  service  of  your  mill ; 
Mine  the  rapture  and  the  freedom  of  the  torrent  on  the  hill! 

Straighten   out  your  wavy    borders;    make   a   tow-path   at  the 

side ; 
Be  the  dull  canal  your  channel,  where  the  heavy  barges  glide, -o 
Lo!  the  muddy  bed  is  tranquil,  not  a  rapid  breaks  the  tide! 

I  shall    wander  o'er  the  meadows  where  the   fairest   blossoms 

call; 
Though  the    ledges  seize  and  fling  me  headlong  from  the  rocky 

wall, 
I  shall  leave  a  rainbow  hanging  o'er  the  ruins  of  my  fall. 

I  shall  lead  a  glad  existence,  as  I  broaden  down  the  vales, 
Brimming    past    the  regal   cities,  whitened    with    the   seaward 

sails, — 
Feel  the  mighty  pulse  of  ocean  ere  I  mingle  with  its  gales: 

Vex  me  not  with  wear}'  questions;  seek  no  moral  to  deduce; 
With  the  present  I  am  busy,  with  the  future  hold  a  truce. 
If  I  live  the  life  He  gave  me,  God  will  turn  it  to  His  use. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  1 79 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


THIS  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  gardener's  daughter;   I  and  he 
Brothers  in  art;  a  friendship  so  complete, 
Portioned  in  halves  between  us,  that  we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercules; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  a  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love  and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summed  up  and  closed  in  little;   Juliet,  she, 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit — oh,  she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless  moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing!     Know  you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love, 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 
Empire  for  life?     But  Eustace  painted  her, 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
"When  \v\\\  you  paint  like  this?"   and  I  replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest) 
"  'Tis  not  your  work,  but  love's,  love  unperceived. 
A  more  ideal  artist  he  than  all, 

Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made  those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that  hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front  of  March/' 
And  Juliet  answered,  laughing,  "  Go  and  see 


i8o  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

The  gardener's  daughter;  trust  me,  after  that, 

You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  masterpiece." 

And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we  went. 

Who  had  not  heard 

Of  Rose,  the  gardener's  daughter?     Where  was  he, 

So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 

At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth   in  grief, 

That,  having  seen,  forgot?     The  common  mouth, 

So   gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of  her 

drew  oratory.      Such  a  lord  is  love, 

And  beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the  world. 

And  now, 

As  though  'twere  yesterday,  as  though  it  were 

The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with  all  its  sound 

(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life  of  these) 

Rings  in  mine  ears. 

And  Eustace  turned  and,  smiling,  said  to  me: 
"  Hear  how  the  bushes  echo!     By  my  life, 
These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.      Think  you  they  sing 
Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for  what  they  have?" 
And  I  made  answer:     "Were  there  nothing  else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only  love, 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for  praise." 

Lightly  he  laughed,  as  one  that  read  my  thought, 
And  on  we  went ;  but  ere  an  hour  had  passed, 
We  reached  a  meadow  slanting  to  the  north  ; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted  us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  private  hedge: 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 
Through  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly  pruned; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  perfume,  blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  entered  in  the  cool. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  l8l 

The  garden  stretches  southward.      In  the  midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers  of  shade 
The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  momently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scattered  silver  lights. 

"Eustace,"  I  said,  "this  wonder  keeps  the  house  '' 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterward 
He  cried,  "Look!   look!"     Before  he  ceased  I  turned, 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there. 

For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern  rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale  had  caught, 
And  blown  across  the  walk       One  arm  aloft — 
Gowned  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the  shape — 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood, 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Poured  on  one  side:  the  shadow  of  the  flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering, 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist — 
Ah,  happy  shade! — and  still  went  wavering  down; 
But,  ere  it  touched  a  foot  that  might  have  danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt, 
And  mixed  with  shadows  of  the  common  ground! 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and  sunned 
Her  violet  eyes  and  all  her  Hebe-bloom, 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips, 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a  breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.      Half  light,  half  shade, 
She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young 
So  rapt,  we  neared  the  house*,  but  she,  a  Rose 
In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil. 
Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tendance  turned 
Into  the  world  without;   till  close  at  hand. 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that  air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her: 


182  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

"  Ah,  one  rose, 
One  rose,  but  one    by  those  fair  fingers  culled, 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  pressed  on  lips 
Less  exquisite  than  thine'  ' 

She  looked;  but  all 
Suffused  with  blushes — neither  self-possessed 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and  that, 
Divided  in  a  graceful   quiet — paused, 
And  dropped  the  branch  she  held,   and,  turning,  wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirred  her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  though  no  answer  came ; 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-like, 
In  a"ct  to  render  thanks.       I,  that  whole  day, 
Saw  her  no  more,  although  I  lingered  there 
Till  every  daisy  slept,  and   love's  white  star 
Beamed  through  the  thickened  cedar  in  the  dusk. 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong  way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "  will  you  climb  the  top  of  art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora       Will   you  match 
My  Juliet?  you.  not  you, — the  master,  love, 
A  more  ideal  artist   he  than  all." 

So  home  I  went  but  could  not  sleep  for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom, 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving — such  a  noise  of  life 
Swarmed   in  the  golden  present,  such  a  voice 
Called  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and  such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimmed  the  dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watchmen  peal 
The  sliding  season:  all  that  night  I  heard 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  183 

The  heavy  clocks  knoll ing  the  drowsy  hours. 
The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good. 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded   wings, 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born  and  heir  to   all 
Made  this  night  thus       Henceforward  squall  nor  storm 
Could  keen  me  from  that  Eden  where  she  dwelt 
Light  pretexts  drew  me,  sometimes  a  Dutch  love 
For  tulips;  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk, 
To  grace  my  city  rooms,  or  fruits  and  cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm     and  more  and  more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my  cheek  , 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy  dew, 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
One  after  one,  through  that  still  garden  passed. 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the  shade; 
And  each  in  passing  touched  with  some  new  grace 
Or  seemed  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by  day, 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known, 
Her  beauty  grew:  till  autumn  brought  an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep  ,:  I  will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  god,  to  hold 
From  thence  through  all   the  worlds.      But  I  rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark  eyes, 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reached 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing  there. 

There  sat  we  down  upon  a  garden  mound 
Two  mutually  enfolded;   love,  the  third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
Enwound"  us  both ;  and  over  many  a  range 


1 84  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 

Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  West, 

Revealed  their  shining  windows       From  them  clashed 

The  bells:   we  listened,   with  the  time  we  played; 

We  spoke  of   other   things,   we  coursed  about 

The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and  near, 

Like  doves  about  a  dove-cot,  wheeling  round 

The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke  to  her, 
Requiring,  though  I  knew  it  was  mine  own, 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear, 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I  loved. 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answered  me, 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words, 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering  "  I  am  thine. :* 

But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have  been  intent 
On  that  veiled  picture — veiled,  for  what  it  holds 
May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 
This  prelude  has  prepared  thee       Raise  thy  soul. 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes;  the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there 
As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 
My  first,  last  love;  the  idol  of  my  youth; 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine  age. 


FA  VORITE    SELECTIONS. 


LINES   WRITTEN -ON    MY   87TH    BIRTHDAY. 


DAVID    DUDLEY    FIELD. 


WHAT  is  it  now  to  live?     It  is  to  breathe 
The  air  of  heaven,  behold  the  pleasant  earth, 
The  shining  rivers,  the  inconstant  sea, 
Sublimity  of  mountains,  wealth  of  clouds, 
And  radiance  o'er  all  of  countless  stars. 
It  is  to  sit  before  the  cheerful  hearth 
With  groups  of  friends  and  kindred,  store  ot  books, 

Rich  heritage  from  ages  past, 

Hold  sweet  communion,  soul  with  soul. 
On  things  now  past,  or  present,  or  to  come, 
Or  muse  alone  upon  my  earlier  days, 

Unbind  the  scroll  whereon  is  writ 

The  story  of  my  busy  life, 
Mistakes  too  often,  but  successes  more, 

And  consciousness  of  duty  done 
It  is  to  see  with  laughing  eyes  the  play 

Of  children  sporting  on  the  lawn, 

Or  mark  the  eager  strifes  of  men 

And  nations,  seeking  each   and  all. 

Belike  advantage  to  obtain 

Above  their  fellows ;  such  is  ro^ni 
It  is  to  feel  the  pulses  quicken,  as  I  hear 

Of  great  achievements  near  or  far 
Whereon  may  turn  perchance 
The  fate  of  generations  ages  hence. 
It  is  to  rest  with  folded  arms  betimes, 

And  so  surrounded,  so  sustained, 

Ponder  on  what  may  yet  befall 

In  that  unknown  mysterious  realm 


1 86  JULIA    AND    ANNIE    THOMAS' 

Which  lies  beyond  the  range  of  mortal  ken. 
Where  souls  immortal  do  forever  dwell, 
Think  of  the  loved  ones  who  await  me  there, 
And,  without  murmuring  or  inward  grief, 
With  mind  unbroken  and  no  fear, 
Calmly  await  the  coming  of  the  Lord; 


PREMONITION    OF    IMMORTALITY. 


DAVID    DUDLEY    FIELD. 
[Written  in  illness,  during  the  winter  of  1892.] 

IN  wakeful  hours,  upon  my  weary  bed, 
I  watch  the  planet  Jupiter  come  forth 
In  lustre  from  the  rim  of  Eastern  skies, 
And  mount  aloft,  till  lost  in  morning  light. 
Gazing  enraptured,  I  wondering  ask, 
Whence  art  thou,  what  thy  purpose,  and  thy  use  ? 
Art  thou  of  beings  like  ourselves  the  home? 
Faith  answers,  wait  until  the  spirit   leaves 
Its  fleshly  garments  and  unfettered  walks 
Among  the  stars,  beholding  face  to  face 
The  Almighty  Maker;  then  thou 'It  see  and  know 
Till  then  think  not  that  this  transcendent  orb 
Was  meant  to  mock  us  with  a  useless  light, 
And  yet  conceal  what  most  we  long  to  see. 
Rather  believe  that  life  will  be  prolonged, 
Until  the  truth  sublime  shall  stand  revealed. 
Hope  on'     Our  lives  are  made  of  hopes  and  fears: 
This  radiance  is  a  star  of  hope  for  all. 
The  mind  perceives  what  mortal  eye  sees  not, 
And  lives  in  confidence  of  things  unknown. 
For  even  now,  when  icy  winter  halts 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  lB, 

As  loth  to  meet  the  spring,  I  wait  for  birds 
To  sing  melodious  welcome  in  the  trees, 
And  buds,  with  fragrance  newly  laden,  burst 
Upon  the  soft,  enchanted  waves  of  air, 


THE    POOR    FISHER    FOLK. 

VICTOR    HUGO. 
Translated  by  the  Rev.  If.  W.  Alexander. 

"TMS  night;  within  the  close-shut  cabin  door 
1       The  room  is  wrapped  in  shade,  save  where  there  fall 

Some  twilight  rays  that  creep  along  the  floor, 
And  show  the  fisher's  nets  upon  the  wall. 

In  the  dim  corner,  from  the  oaken  chest 

A  few  white  dishes  glimmer  ;  through  the  shade 

Stands  a  tall  bed  with  dusky  curtains  dressed, 
And  a  rough  mattress  at  its  side  is  laid. 

Five  children  on  the  long  low  mattress  lie, — 
A  nest  of  little  souls,  it  heaves  with  dreams; 

In  the  high  chimney  the  last  embers  die, 

And  redden  the  dark  roof  with  crimson  gleams. 

The  mother  kneels  and  thinks,  and,  pale  with  fear, 
She  prays  alone,  hearing  the  billows  shout, 

While  to  wild  winds,   to  rocks,   to  midnight  drear, 
The  ominous  old  ocean  sobs  without. 

Janet  is  sad,  her  husband  is  alone, 

Wrapped  in  the  black  shroud  of  this  bitter  night. 
His  children  are  so  little,  there  is  none 

To  give  him  aid.       'Were  they  but  old,  they  might." 


1 88  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Ah,  mother,  when  they,  too,  are  on  the  main, 

How  wilt  thou  weep,  "Would  they  were  young  again!" 

She  takes  her  lantern.      'Tis  his  hour  at  last; 

She  will  go  forth,  and  see  if  the  day  breaks, 
And  if  his  signal-fire  be  at  the  mast; 

Ah,  no!  not  yet!     No  breath  of  morning  wakes. 

Sudden  her  human  eyes,  that  peer  and  watch 

Through  the  deep  shade,  a  mouldering  dwelling  find. 

No  light  within;  the  thin  door  shakes, — the  thatch 
O'er  the  green  walls  is  twisted  of  the  wind. 

"Ah,  me,"  she  saith,  "here  doth  that  widow  dwell; 
I  will  go  in  and  see  if  all  be  well." 

She  strikes  the  door ;   she  listens;  none  replies, 
And  Janet  shudders.      "  Husbandless,    alone, 

And  with  two  children — they  have  scant  supplies, — 
Good  neighbor'     She  sleeps  heavy  as  a  stone." 

She  calls  again,  she  knocks;   'tis  silence  still,— 
No  sounu,  no  answer;  suddenly  the  door, 

As  if  the  senseless  creature  felt  some  thrill 
Of  pity,  turned,  and  open  lay  before. 

She  entered,  and  her  lantern  lighted  all 

The  hou»e,  so  still  but  for  the  rude  waves'  din. 

Through  the  thin  roof  the  plashing  rain-drops  fall, 
But  something  terrible  is  couched  within. 

Half  clothed,  dark-featured,  motionless  lay  she, 
The  once  strong  mother,  now  devoid  of  life; 

The  cold  and  livid  arm,  already  stiff, 

Hung  o'er  the  soaked  straw  of  her  wretched  bed. 
And  all  the  while 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  1 89 

Two  little  children,  in  one  cradle  near, 

Slept  face  to  face,  on  each  sweet  face  a  smile. 

The  dying  mother  o'er  them,  as  they  lay, 

Had  cast  her  gown,  and  wrapped  her  mantle's  fold; 

Feeling  chill  death  creep  up,  she  willed  that  they 
Should  yet  be  warm  while  she  was  lying  cold. 

But  why  does  Janet  pass  so  fast  away? 

What  foldeth  she  beneath  her  mantle  gray? 
And  hurries  home,  and  hides  it   in  her  bed? 

What  hath  she  stolen  from  the  awful   dead? 

The  dawn  was  whitening  over  the  sea's  verge 

As  she  sat  pensive,  touching  broken   chords 
Of  half-remorseful  thought,  while  the  hoarse  surge 

Howled  a  sad  concert  to  her  broken  words. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  husband !   we  had  five  before , 

Already  so  much  care,  so  much  to  find, 
For  he  must  work  for  all.      I  give  him  more. 

What  was  that  noise  ?     His  step  ?     Ah,  no,  the'wind. 

ur    "That  I  should  be  afraid  of  him  I  love! 

I  have  done  ill.      If  he  should  beat  me  now, 
I  would  not  blame  him.      Did  not  the  door  move? 

Not  yet,  poor  man."      She  sits  with  careworn  brow 
Wrapped  in  her  inward  grief,   nor  hears  the  roar 

Of  winds  and  waves  that  dash  against  his  prow, 
Nor  the  black  cormorant  shrieking  on  the  shore 

Sudden  the  door  flies  open  wide,  and  lets 

Noisily  in  the  dawn-light  scarcely  clear, 
And  the  good  fisher  dragging   his   damp  nets 

Stands  on  the  threshold  with  a  joyous  cheer. 


19°  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

"  'Tis  thou!"  she  cries,  and  eager  as  a  lover 
Leaps  up,  and  holds  her  husband  to  her  breast; 

Her   greeting  kisses  all  his  vesture  cover. 

"  'Tis  I,  good  wife!"   and  his  broad  face  expressed 

How  gay  his  heart  that  Janet's  love  made  light. 

"  What  weather  was  it  ?"     "Hard."     "  Your  fishing?"     "Bad. 
The  sea  was  like  a  nest  of  thieves  to-night; 

But  I  embrace  thee,  and  my  heart  is  glad. 

"  There  was  a  devil  in  the  wind  that  blew ; 

I  tore  my  net,  caught  nothing,  broke   my  line, 
And  once  I  thought  the  bark  was  broken  too; 

What  did  you  all  the  night  long,  Janet  mine?" 

She,  trembling  in  the  darkness,  answered,  "I? 

O  naught!     I  sewed,  I  watched,  I  was  afraid; 
The  waves  were  loud  as  thunders  from  the  sky; 

But  it  is  over."     Shyly  then  she  said: 

"Our  neighbor  died  last  night;   it  must  have  been 
When  you  were  gone.      She  left  two  little  ones, 

So  small,  so  frail — William  and  Madeline; 
The  one  just  lisps,  the  other  scarcely  runs." 

The  man  looked  grave,  and  in  the  corner  cast 

His  old  fur  bonnet,  wet  with  rain  and  sea; 
Muttered  awhile,  and  scratched  his  head;  at  last, 

"We  have  five  children,  this  makes  seven,"  said  he. 

"Already  in  bad  weather  we  must  sleep 

Sometimes  without  our  supper.      Now — ah,  well, 

'Tis  not  my  fault.      These  accidents  are  deep; 
Jt  was  the  good  God's  will.      I  cannot  tell. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  IQI 

"  Why  did  He  take  the  mother  from  those  scraps, 

No  bigger  than  my  fist  ?     'Tis  hard  to  read; 
A  learned  man  might  understand  perhaps; 

So  little,  they  can  neither  work  nor  need. 

"Go  fetch  them,  wife;  they  will  be  frightened  sore 

If  with  the  dead  alone  they  waken  thus; 
That,  was  the  mother  knocking  at  our  door, 

And  we  must  take  the  children  home  to  us. 

"Brother  and  sister  shall  they  be  to  ours, 

And  they  shall  learn  to  climb  my  knee  at  even. 

When  He  shall  see  these  strangers  in  our  bowers, 
More  fish,  more  food  will  give  the  God  of  heaven. 

"I  will  work  harder;  I  will  drink  no  wine — 

Go  fetch  them.      Wherefore  dost  thou  linger,  dear? 

Not  thus  were  wont  to  move  those  feet  of  thine." 
She  drew  the  curtain,  saying,  "They  are  here." 

Adapted  by  the  Compilers. 


EXTRACT    FROM    "THE    LIGHT    OF   ASIA." 


SIR  EDWIN   ARNOLD. 


THEN  said  the  master:     "  I  will  also  go!" 
So  paced  he  patiently,  bearing  the  lamb 
Beside  the  herdsmen  in  the  dust  and  sun, 
The  wistful  ewe  low  bleating  at  his  feet. 
Whom,  when  they  came  unto  the  river-side, 
A  woman — dove-eyed,  young,  with  tearful  face 
And  lifted  hands — saluted,  bending  low: 
"Lord!   thou  art  he,"  she  said,  "who  yesterday 


■92  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

Had  pity  on  me  in  the  fig-grove  here, 

Where  I  live  lone  and  reared  my  child;  but  he 

Straying  amid  the  blossoms  found  a  snake, 

Which  twined  about  his  wrist,  whilst  he  did  laugh 

And  tease  the  quick-forked   tongue  and  opened  mouth 

Of  that  cold  playmate.      It  was  so  very  small, 

That  kiss-mark  of  the  serpent,  and  I  think 

It  could  not  hate  him,  gracious  as  he  was, 

Nor  hurt  him  in  his  sport.      And  some  one  said: 

'There  is  a  holy  man  upon  the  hill — 

Lo !   now  he  passeth  in  the  yellow  robe — 

Ask  of  the  Rishi  if  there  be  a  cure 

For  that  which  ails  thy  son. '      Whereon  I  came, 

Trembling,  to  thee  whose  brow  is  like  a  god's, 

And  wept  and  drew  the  face-cloth  from  my  babe, 

Praying  thee  tell  what  simples  might  be  good. 

And  thou,  great  sir!  didst  spurn  me  not,  but  gazed 

With  gentle  eyes  and  touched  with  patient  hand; 

Then  drew  the  face-cloth  back,  saying  to  me: 

'Yea!   little  sister,  there  is  that  might  heal 

Thee  first,  and  him,  if  thou  couldst  fetch  the  thing; 

For  they  who  seek  physicians  bring  to  them 

What  is  ordained.      Therefore,  I  pray  thee,  find 

Black  mustard-seed,  a  tola;  only  mark 

Thou  take  it  not  from  any  hand  or  house 

Where  father,  mother,  child,  or  slave  hath  died: 

It  shall  be  well  if  thou  canst  find  such  seed.' 

Thus  didst  thou  speak,,  my  lord!" 

The  master  smiled 
Exceeding  tenderly:     "Yea!   I  spake  thus, 
Dear  Kisagotami !     But  didst  thou  find 
The  seed  ?" 

"  I  went,  lord,  clasping  to  my  breast 
The  babe,  grown  colder,  asking  at  each  hut, 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  -93 

Here  in  the  jungle  and  toward  the  town, 

'I  pray  you,  give  me  mustard,  of  your  grace, 

A  tola — black;'   and  each  who  had   it  gave, 

For  all  the  poor  are  piteous  to  the  poor. 

But  when  I  asked,  'In  my  friend's  household  here 

Hath  any  peradventure  ever  died — 

Husband  or  wife,  or  child,  or  slave?'   they  said: 

'O  sister!  what  is  this-  you  ask?     The  dead 

Are  very  many,  and  the  living  few!' 

So  with  sad  thanks  I  gave  the  mustard  back, 

And  prayed  of  others;  but    the  others  said, 

'Here  is  thy  seed,  but  we  have  lost  our  slave!' 

'Here  is  thy  seed,  but  our  good  man  is  dead;' 

'Here  is  some  seed,  but  he  that  sowed  it  died 

Between  the  rain-time  and  the  harvesting.' 

Ah,  sir,  I  could  not  find  a  single  house 

Where  there  was  mustard-seed  and  none  had  died! 

Therefore  I  left  my  child — who  could  not  feed 

Nor  smile — beneath  the  wild  vines  by  the  stream 

To  seek  thy  face,  and  kiss  thy  feet,  and  pray 

Where  I  might  find  this  seed  and  find  no  death." 

"  My  sister!   thou  hast  found,"  the  master  said, 
"Searching  for  what  none  finds — that  bitter  balm 
I  had  to  give  thee.      He  thou  lovest  slept 
Dead  on  thy  bosom  yesterday :  to-day 

Thou  knowest  the  whole  wide  world  weeps  with  thy  woe. 
The  grief  which  all  hearts  share  grows  less  for  one. 
Lo!  I  would  pour  my  blood  if  it  could  stay 
Thy  tears  and  win  the  secret  of  that  curse 
Which  makes  sweet  love  our  anguish,  and  which   drives 
O'er  flowers  and  pastures  to  the  sacrifice 
As  these  dumb  beasts  are  driven — men  their  lords. 
I  seek  that  secret.      Bury  thou  thy  child!" 
13 


194  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 


TO   WALT   WHITMAN. 


ANNIE    THOMAS. 


GREAT  mind!     Sweet  soul !   least  understood, 
With  homage  thee  I  greet ! 
Too  early  hast  thou  lived,  it  seems, 
So  few  thy  thought  can  meet. 

But  unto  those  to  whom  'tis  given 

To  understand- — through  tears — 
A  vision  of  the  life  beyond 

While  here  below  appears. 

For  over  poor  and  common  things, 

The  homeliest — to  sight 
Thou  throwest  with  thy  deeper  thought 

A  beauty  new  and  bright. 

With  tender  word  and  loving  care 

And  sympathetic  tear, 
Thou  gatherest  to  thy  gentle  breast, 

The  lonelv  outcasts  here. 

3  ,-    ■ 

From  evil  thou  extractest  good- 
Good  from  which  blessings  grow — 

Even  dreaded  death  no  longer  can 
A  single  terror  show. 

Only  thine  own  majestic  form 

A  heart  so  great  could  hold — 
Only  the  tears  in  childhood  shed, 

A  soul  so  pure  could  mould. 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  1 95 

Thou,  too,  hast  suffered — sore  and  long — 

Although  thy  lips  deny; 
But  in  thy  sorrow  singing  still 

The  songs  that  will  not  die. 

I  thank  thee  for  the  lessons  given 

And  for  the  sight  unsealed; 
With  grateful  heart  and  peaceful  soul 

I  see  the  truth  revealed. 


GEMS    FROM    WALT    WHITMAN. 

AND  I  say  to  mankind:      Be  not  curious  about  (rod; 
For  I,  who  am  curious  about  each,  am  not   curious   about 

God. 
(No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am  at  peace  about  God 

and  about  death.) 
I  hear  and  behold   God   in   every  object,    yet   understand   God 

not  in  the  least; 
Nor  do  I   understand  who  there   can  be  more   wonderful   than 

myself. 
Why  should  1  wish  to  see  God  better  than  this  day' 
I  see  something  of  God  each  hour  of  the  twenty-four  and  each 

moment  then ; 
In  the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  see  God,  and  in  my  own  face 

in  the  glass ; 
I  find   letters  from  God  dropped  in  the  street,  and   every  one  is 

signed  by  God's  name, 
And  I  leave  them  where  they  are,   lor  I  know  that   wheresoe'er 

I  go, 
Others  will  punctually  come  forever  and  ever. 

******* 


196  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS' 

I   think  I  could   turn  and  live  with  animals,  they  are  so  placid 

and  self-contained: 
I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 
They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition; 
They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their  sins; 
They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  God. 
Not  one  is  dissatisfied;  not  one  is  demented  with  the  mania  of 

owning  things: 
Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived  thousands 

of  years  ago. 

*  ****** 

O  living  always— always  dying! 
O  the  burials  of  me,  past  and  present! 

O  me,  while  I  stride  ahead,'  material,  visible,  imperious  as  ever! 
O  me,    what   I  was  for  years,     now  dead   I   lament   not — I  am 
content. 

0  to  disengage  myself  from  those  corpses  of  me  which   I   turn 

and  look  at,  where  I  cast  them! 
To   pass  on  (O  living!   always  living!)  and   leave  the  corpses 
behind. 
******* 

1  He  abstracted,    and  hear  beautiful   tales  of  things,  and  the 

reasons  of  things; 
They  are  so  beautiful,  I  nudge  myself  to   listen. 
I  cannot  say  to  any  person   what   I    hear — I   cannot  say  it  to 

myself — it  is  very  wonderful. 
It   is  no  small  matter,  this  round  and  delicious  globe,  moving 

so  exactly   in   its  orbit   forever  and    ever,    without  one 

jolt,  or  the  untruth  of  a  single  second. 
I   do  not  think   it   was  made  in  six   days,  nor   in  ten  thousand 

years,  nor  ten  billions  of  years; 
Nor  planned  and  built   one  thing  after  another,  as  an  architect 

plans  and  builds  a  house. 

******* 


FAVORITE    SELECTIONS.  197 

I  do  not  think  seventy  years  is  the  time  of  a  man  or  woman, 
Nor  that  seventy  millions  of  years  is  the  time   of  a   man   or 

woman, 
Nor  that  years  will  ever  stop  the  existence  of  me   or  anyone 

else. 
Is  it   wonderful   that   I   should  be    immortal,  as  every  one   is 

immortal  ? 
I  know  it  is  wonderful — but  my  eyesight  is  equally  wonderful, 

and   how   I    was    conceived    in    my   mother's  womb   is 

equally  wonderful ; 
And  passed  from  a  babe,  in  the  creeping  trance  of  a  couple  of 

summers  and  winters,  to   articulate  and  walk — all   this 

is  equally  wonderful. 
And  that  my  soul   embraced  you  this  hour  and  we  affect  each 

other  without  ever  seeing  each  other,  and  never  perhaps 

to  see  each  other,  is  every  bit  as  wonderful. 
And  that  I  can  think  such  thoughts  as  these  is  just  as  wonder- 
ful: 
And  that  I   can  remind  you,    and  you   think   them  and  know 

them  to  be  true,  is  just  as  wonderful ; 
And  that  the  moon  spins  round  the  earth  and  on  with  the  earth, 

is  equally  as  wonderful; 
And  that  they  balance  themselves  with   the  sun   and  stars,    is 

equally  wonderful. 

*  *  %  *  %       -      *  * 

Me  wherever  my  life  is  lived.  O  to  be  self-balanced  for  con- 
tingencies! 

O  to  confront  night,  storms,  hunger,  ridicule,  accidents,  rebuffs, 
as  the  trees  and  animals  do. 

O  the  orator's  joys'  To  inflate  the  chest — to  roll  the  thunder 
of  the  voice  out  from  the  ribs  and  throat, 

To  make  the  people  rage,  weep,  hate,  desire,  with  yourself, 

To  lead  America — to  quell  America  with  a  great  tongue. 

O  the  joy  of  a  manly  selfhood! 


198  JULIA    AND    ANNIE     THOMAS'    SELECTIONS. 

Personality — to  be  servile  to  none— to   defer   to   none — not   to 

any  tyrant,  known  or  unknown; 
To  walk  with  erect  carriage,  a  step  springy  and  elastic; 
To  look  with  calm  gaze  or  with  flashing  eye: 
To  speak  with  a  full   and  sonorous  voice  out  of  a  broad   chest; 
To  confront  with  your  personality  all  the  other  personalities  of 

the  earth ; 
O  to  have  my  life  henceforth  my  poem  of  joys! 
To  dance,  clap  hands,  exult,  shout,  skip,  leap,  roll  on,  float  on. 
An  athlete — full  of  rich  words — full  of  joys! 

The  soul  travels;  the  body  does  not  travel  as  much  as  the  soul; 
The  body  has  just  as  great  a  work  as  the  soul,  and   parts  away 

at  last  for  the  journeys  of  the  soul. 
All  parts  away  for  the  progress  of  souls; 
All  religion,  all    solid   things,  arts,  governments — all  that  was 

or  is  apparent   upon  this  globe  or  any  globe,  falls   into 

niches  and  corners  before  the  procession  of  souls  along  the 

grand  roads  of  the  universe. 
Of  the  progress  of    the   souls  of  men   and   women    along  the 

grand  roads  of  the    universe,    all   other  progress  is  the 

needed  emblem  and  sustenance 
Forever  alive,  forever  forward, 
Stately,  solemn,  sad,  withdrawn,  baffled,  mad,  turbulent,  feeble, 

dissatisfied, 
Desperate,    proud,    fond,    sick,    accepted   by   men,    rejected    by 

men, 
They  go!  they  go!     I  know  that  they  go,  but  I  know  not  where 

they  go ; 
But  I  know  they  are  toward  the  best — toward  something  great. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  33.  199 


THE   HAZING   6F   VALIANT. 


JESSE   LYNCH    WILLIAMS. 


SHE  was  a  small  girl,  but  her  sense  of  the  ridiculous  was  tremen- 
dous. All  summer  long  she  sat  on  the  sand  and  was  nice  to  two 
boys — a  sub-freshman  and  a  sophomore.  The  sub-freshman's  name 
was  Valiant;  he  had  a  complexion  that  women  envied;  he  was  small 
and  dainty,  and  smelled  sweet.  The  other,  whose  name  was  Buckley, 
was  bigger,  and  much  more  self-assertive. 

One  day  the  girl  decided  it  would  be  fun  to  make  them  hate  each 
other,  and  after  that  the  sophomore  longed  for  the  fall,  and  the  nights 
when  no  freshman  is  perfectly  sure  of  what  may  happen  to  him  before 
morning. 

In  the  good  old  days  you  had  only  casually  to  drop  word  to  a  fresh- 
man on  the  way  to  recitation  to  wait  for  you  when  evening  came, 
and  he  would  turn  up  promptly,  take  his  little  dose  meekly,  and  go 
back  to  bed  a  better  boy  for  it.     But  that  is  changed  now. 

Twice  had  Buckley  waited  near  the  house  where  Valiant  ate  his 
dinner.  He  had  tried  several  ways  of  getting  into  the  house  where 
Valiant  lived,  but  without  success.  Then  for  three  successive  nights 
he  waited  in  an  alley  near  by.  On  the  third  night  Valiant  came,  but 
with  him  an  upper  classman  friend.  Buckley  kept  in  the  shadow, 
but  Valiant  called  out. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Buckley?  How  do  you  do?  Aren't  you 
coming  in  to  see  me?" 

"Not  now,"  growled  Buckley.  "I'll  drop  in  later.  Which  is 
your  room  ?'" 

Excusing  himself  from  the  upper  classman,  Valiant  led  Buckley 
into  the  alleyway  and  pointed  up,  "That  room  up  there,  see?"  he 
5aid  politely. 

The  next  nisdit  Bucklev  got  his  gang  together.     Thev  decided  that. 


200  WERNER'S   READINGS 

a  dip  in  the  canal  would  be  excellent  for  Valiant's  health;  if  he  felt 
cold  after  that  he  could  climb  a  telephone  pole  for  exercise  and  sing,- 
"Nearer  my  home  to-day — to-day,  than  I  have  been  before,"  at  the 
top  of  it. 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  they  carried  a  ladder  into  the  alley- 
way. 

This  was  a  particularly  nervy  go.  A  young  professor  and  his  young 
wife  had  a  suite  of  rooms  in  this  house.  It  was  moonlight,  and  a  certain 
owl-eyed  proctor  was  pretty  sure  to  pass  not  far  away,  but  if  they 
hurried  the}'  thought  they  could  send  a  man  up  and  get  away  without 
being  caught. 

Buckley  was  to  get  in  the  window,  which  was  open,  it  being  a  warm 
night;  the  others  were  to  hustle  away  with  the  ladder  and  wait  for 
him  at  a  street  several  blocks  distant.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that 
Valiant  would  have  to  come  with  him. 

Buckley  climbed  up,  got  one  foot  over  the  sill,  and  was  in  the  room. 
He  leaned  out  and  waved  his  hand.  Silently  the  ladder  disappeared. 
He  turned  and  started  across  the  room.  He  heard  a  small  clock  tick- 
ing, and  detected  a  faint  smell  of  mouchoir  powder.  He  had  scarcely 
had  time  to  think  that  was  just  what  might  have  been  expected  of  a 
man  like  Valiant,  when  a  soft  voice  said,  "Is  that  you,  dear?" 

Then  before  all  the  blood  in  his  body  had  time  to  freeze,  he  stepped 
out  of  the  moonlight  into  the  shadow  and  whispered,  "Shsss!"  In- 
stinct made  him  do  this. 

Across  the  silence  the  soft  voice  came  again,  "Oh,  I'm  not  asleep. 
But  why  did  you  stay  so  long,  Guy,  dear?" 

Buckley  heard  the  squeaking  of  a  bed-spring  and  as  his  knees 
stiffened  he  spied  coming  toward  him  something  white  with  two  black 
streaks  hanging  half-way  down,  which,  as  the  thing  came  into  the 
moonlight,  he  saw  to  be  long  braids  of  dark  hair.  It  was  a  tall,  slender 
figure  clothed  in  a  white  garment.  The  face  was  young  and  beautiful. 
Buckley  closed  his  eyes.  But  it  came  nearer  and  nearer.  He  stood 
up  perfectly  rigid  in  the  darkness  as  two  soft  arms  reached  up  and 
met  about  his  neck. 

Buckley  did  not  budge  and  the  soft  voice  began,  "You  have  not 
forgiven  me  yet?"     It  began  to  sob.     "You  know  I  did  not  mean  it. 


AND    RECITATIONS  NO.   33. 


201 


Won' 1  you  forgive  her?  Won't  you  forgive  her?"  For  fully  half  a 
minute  he  tried  to  think  what  to  do;  then  he  gritted  his  teeth  and 
put  his  arms  round  the  Clingy  Thing. 

"Tell  me  you  do  forgive  me.  Say  it  with  your  own  lips.  Guy  dear. 
Speak  to  me,  my  husband!" 

Buckley  didn't.  A  soft  fragrant  hand  came  up  along  his  cheek, 
\vhich  tingled,  and  over  his  eyes,  which  quivered.  Suddenly  she  raised 
her  head,  gave  one  startled  look  into  his  face,  and  with  a  shuddering 
gasp,  she  recoiled. 

But  Buckley  was  not  letting  go.  Keeping  one  arm  about  her 
waist  he  threw  the  other  around  her  neck  in  such  a  way  that  he  could 
draw  it  tight  if  necessary,  and  said,  "For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
scream — I  can  explain!" 

"Ugh,  Oh,  let  go!  Who— let  me  go,  or  I'll  screa-ch-ch-ch. " 
Buckley  pressed  on  the  windpipe,  feeling  like  three  or  four  murderers 
as  he  did  so. 

"Oh,  please,  if  you  scream  it'll  only  make  things  awfully  awkward. 
I  got  in  here  by  mistake.     Oh,  please  keep  quiet. " 

She  tried  again  to  wrench  away  from  his  grasp,  and  Buckley, 
feeling  more  of  a  cad  than  he  ever  had  in  his  life,  said,  "Promise 
me  you'll  not  cry  out  and  I'll  let  you  go." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  promise,"  said  the  scared  voice.  She  fled  across  the 
room.  Buckley  thought  she  was  making  for  the  door  and  sprang  to 
stop  her,  but  she  only  snatched  up  an  afghan  or  something  from  the 
sofa,  and  holding  it  about  her,  retreated  to  the  dark  part  of  the  room, 
moaning,   "Oh  dear!    oh  dear!" 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,"  he  began  in  a  loud  nervous 
whisper,  "but  I  wish  you  wouldn't  cry.  Please  be  calm.  It's  all  a 
big  mistake.     I  thought  I  was  coming  to  my  own  room — " 

"Your  own  room!" 

"I  mean  my  classmate's  room, — I  mean  I  thought  a  freshman 
roomed  here.  You  aren't  half  so  sorry  as  I  am — Oh,  yes  you  are — I 
mean  I'm  awfully  sorry — "     Buckley  started  for  the  door. 

"Mrs.  Brown — Mr.  Brown — help!    murder!" 

"Oh  don't." 

''I  will.     Just  as  soon  a  I  get  any  breath  I  mean  to  wake  up  the 


202  WERNER'S    READINGS 

whole  holise,  and  the  whole  town  if  I  can."     Buckley  started  across 
the  room. 

"Stop!" 

"You  promised." 

"You  fore  d  me  to  promise." 

The  bold,  bad  sophomo  e  was  down  on  his  knees  with  his  hands 
clasped  toward  the  dark  where  the  voice  came  from. 

"You  stay  right  there  in  the  moonlight." 

"Right  here?" 

"Right  there,  and  if  you  dare  to  move  I'll  scream  with  all  my 
might." 

Buckley  shivered  and  froze  stiff. 

"How  long  must  I  stay  here?" 

"Until  my  husb — until  daylight." 

"Until  daylight!" 

And  then  he  began  to  plead — 

"I'll  be  fired — I  mean  expelled  from  college — I'll  be  disgraced  for 
life.     I'll—" 

"Stop!  While  it  may  be  true  that  you  did  not  break  into  my  room 
with  intent  to  rob  or  injure  a  defenceless  woman,  yet,  by  your  own 
confession,  you  came  to  torment  a  weaker  person.  You  came  to  haze 
a  freshman.     And  when  my  husband — " 

"Have  mercy,  have  mercy.  If  I'm  fired  from  college  all  my 
prospects  will  be  blighted;  my  life  will  be  ruined,  and  my  mother's 
heart  broken." 

She  gave  a  little  hysterical  sob. 

"For  your  poor  mother's  sake,  go!" 

Next  morning  Buckley  received  a  letter. 

"Just  as  a  tall  woman  looks  short  in  a  man's  make-up,  so  does  a 
short  man  look  tall  in  a  woman's  make-up,  and  you  should  know  that 
blonds  are  hard  to  recognize  in  brunette  wigs. 

"  Your  merciful  benefactress, 

"H.  C.  Valiant." 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  33.  203 

DE   PO'   WHITE  TRASH. 


MINNY  MAUD   HANFF. 


DAH'S  a  lot  ob  white  boys  libin' 
In  de  alley  back  ob  us, 
An'  when  I  was  out  a-playin', 
Well,  dey  sho'  did  raise  a  fuss! 

Callin'  me  a  liT  niggah, 

What  de  Lawd  done  made  at  night, 
N'en  I  hurried  in  to  Mammy, 

An'  dey  tripped  me  up,  fo'  spite! 

But  when  I  come  in  a-cryin', 
What  yo'  reckon  Mammy  said, 

Aftah  she  got  done  a-cuddlin' 
An'  a-pattin,'  pattin'  o'  ma  haid? 

She  jes'  whispahed,  "Sammy,  honey, 
You  is  yo'  ol'  Mammy's  mash! 

Don't  ye  min'  dem  common  chillen, 
Dey  is  only  po'  white  trash! 


cLet  'em  holler  all  dey  wants  to, 

Bresh  'em  by  an'  don't  you  call, 
'Cause  you'se  mo'  high-toned,  ma  Sammy 
Dan  de  whites'  white  chile  dah!" 

S'  now,  I'  clar',  I  do'  min'  nuffinv 
Pass  dem  white  boys  wif  a  dash; 

Rudder  be  a  high-toned  darkey 
'Sted  ob  some  ol'  po'  white  trash! 


204  WERNER'S   READINGS 

BUDD   EXPLAINS. 

MARION   SHORT. 

Written  Expressly  for  this  Book. 


LOOK  up  street  and  see  her  coming, 
Trundling  out  her  hoop — 
Rolls'  toward  me — I  keep  on  whistling, 
Lounging  on  our  stoop. 

"Hello,  proudy!"     She  don't  answer; 
Frosty  as  can  be! 
Whiz !  I  shoot  a  pebble  at  her, 
Then  she  looks  at  me. 

Then  she  talks — I  knew  I'd  make  her — 
Calls  me  "rude"  and  "bad"; 

I  dart  out  my  foot  and  trip  her — 
Whew!  but  ain't  she  mad! 

Starts  to  run  and  back  I  pull  her 

By  her  yellow  braid ; 
Says  she'll  up  and  tell  her  brother — 

Gee!  I  ain't  afraid. 

Like  to  tease  her,  make  her  sass  me 

When  she  passes  by; 
Like  to  scare  her  and  torment  her 

Like  to  make  her  cry. 

Like  to  snatch  her  books  and  keep  them. 

Call  her  "teacher's  pet"; 
Hate  her  so  because  I  love  her — 

She's  my  girl,  you  bet! 


AND    RECITATIONS  NO.  33.  205 


THE   CYCLOPEEDY. 


EUGENE   FIELD. 

HAVIN'  lived  next  door  to  the  Hobart  place  f'r  goin'  on  thirty  years, 
I  cal'late  that  I  knows  jest  about  ez  much  about  the  case  ez 
anybody  else  now  on  airth. 

It  seems  that  in  the  spring  uv  '47  there  comes  along  a  book-agent 
sellin'  volyumes  'nd  tracks  f'r  the  diffusion  uv  knowledge,  'nd  havin' 
got  the  recommend  of  the  minister  'nd  uv  the  selectmen,  he  done  an 
all-fired  big  business  in  our  part  uv  the  country.  His  name  was  Lemuel 
Higgins,  'nd  he  was  ez  likely  a  talker  ez  I  ever  heerd,  barrin'  Lawyer 
Conkey,  'nd  everybody  allowed  that  when  Conkey  wuz  turned  round 
he  talked  so  fast  that  the  town  pump  ud  have  to  be  greased  every  twenty 
minutes. 

One  of  the  first  uv  our  folks  that  this  Lemuel  Higgins  struck  wuz 
Leander  Hobart.  Leander  had  jest  marr'd  one  uv  the  Peasley  girls, 
'nd  had  moved  into  the  old  homestead.  Deacon  Hobart  havin'  give  up 
the  place  to  him,  Leander  wuz  feelin'  his  oats  jest  about  this  time,  'nd 
nothin'  wuz  too  good  f'r  him. 

Waal,  he  bargained  with  Higgins  for  a  set  uv  them  cyclopeedies, 
'nd  he  signed  his  name  to  a  long  printed  paper  that  showed  how  he 
agreed  to  take  a  cyclopeedy  oncet  in  so  often,  which  wuz  to  be  ez  often 
ez  a  new  one  of  the  volyumes  wuz  printed.  A  cyclopeedy  isn't  printed 
all  at  oncet,  because  that  would  make  it  cost  too  much;  consekentlv, 
the  man  that  gets  it  up  has  it  strung  along  fur  apart  so  as  to  hit  folks 
oncet  every  year  or  two,  and  gin'rally  about  harvest-time.  So  Leander 
kind  uv  liked  the  idea,  and  he  signed  the  printed  paper  'nd  made  his 
affadavit  to  it  afore  Jedge  Warner. 

The  fust  volyume  of  the  cyclopeedy  stood  on  a  shelf  in  the  old 
seckertary  in  the  settin'-room  about  four  months  before  they  had  anv 
use  f'r  it.  One  night  '  Squire  Turner's  son  come  over  to  visit  Leander 
and  Hattie,  'nd  they  got  to  talkin'  about  apples,  'nd  the  sort  uv  apples 
that  wuz  the  best.  Leander  allowed  that  the  Rhode  Island  greenin'  wuz 
the  best,  but  Hattie  and  the  Turner  boy  stuck  up  f'r  the  Roxbury 


206  WERNER'S   READINGS 

russet,  until  at  last  a  happy  idee  struck  Leander,  and  sez  he,  "We'll 
leave  it  to  the  cyclopeedy,  b'gosh !  Whichever  one  the  cyclopeedy  sez 
is  the  best  will  settle  it." 

"But  you  can't  find  out  nothin'  'bout  Roxbury  russets  nor  Rhode 
Island  greenin's  in  our  cyclopeedy,"  sez  flattie. 

"Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know?"  sez  Leander,  kind  liv  indignant-like. 

"'Cause  ours  hain't  got  down  to  the  R  yet,"  sez  Hattie.  "All  ours 
tells  about  is  things  beginnin'  with  A." 

"Well,  ain't  we  talkin'  about  Apples?"  sez  Leander.  "You  aggra- 
vate me  terrible,  Hattie,  by  insistin'  on  knowin'  what  you  don't  know 
nothin'  about." 

Leander  went  to  the  seckertarv  'nd  took  down  the  cyclopeedy 
'nd  hunted  all  through  it  f'r  Apples,  bul  all  he  could  find  wuz:  "Apple — 
See  Pomology." 

"How  in  thunder  kin  I  see  Pomology,"  sez  Leander,  "when  there 
ain't  no  Pomology  to  see?     Gol  durn  a  cyclopeedy,  anyhow!" 

And  he  put  the  volyume  back  on  to  the  shelf  'nd  never  sot  eyes 
into  it  agin. 

That's  the  way  the  thing  run  f'r  years  'nd  years.  Leander  would've 
gin  up  the  plaguey  bargain,  but  he  couldn't;  he  had  signed  a  printed 
paper  'nd  had  swore  to  it  before  a  justice  of  the  peace.  Higgins  would 
have  had  the  law  on  him  if  he  had  throwed  up  the  trade. 

The  most  aggrevatin'  feature  uv  it  all  wuz  that  a  new  one  uv  them 
cussed  cyclopeedies  wuz  allers  sure  to  show  up  at  the  wrong  time — 
when  Leander  wuz  hard  up  or  had  jest  been  afflicted  some  way  or 
other.  His  barn  burned  down  two  nights  afore  the  volyume  containin' 
the  letter  B  arrived,  and  Leander  needed  all  his  chink  to  pay  f'r  lumber, 
but  Higgins  sot  back  on  that  affadavit  and  defied  the  life  out  uv  him. 

"Never  mind,  Leander,"  sez  his  wife,  soothin'-like;  "it's  a  good 
book  to  have  in  the  house,  anyhow,  now  that  we've  got  a  baby." 

"That's  so,"  sez  Leander,  "babies  does  begin  with  B,  don't  it  ?" 

You  see  their  fust  baby  had  been  born;  so,  seein'  as  how  it  wuz 
payin'  f'r  a  book  that  told  about  babies,  Leander  didn't  begredge  that 
five  dollars  so  very  much  after  all. 

"Leander,"  sez  Hattie,  one  afternoon,  "that  B  cyclopeedy  ain't  no 
account.     There  ain't  nothin'  in  it  about  babies  except  'See  Maternity!'" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   33.  207 

"Waal,  I'll  be  gosh-durned ! "  sez  Leander. 

So  the  years  passed  on,  one  of  them  cyclopeedies  showin'  up  now 
7nd  then  alius  at  a  time  when  Leander  found  it  pesky  hard  to  give  up 
a  fiver.  It  warn't  no  use  cussin'  Higgins;  Higgins  jest  laffed  when 
Leander  allowed  that  the  cyclopeedy  wuz  no  good  'nd  that  he  wuz  bein' 
robbed. 

Oncet  when  Hiram  wanted  to  dreen  the  home  pasture,  he  went  to 
the  cyclopeedy  to  find  out  about  it,  but  all  he  diskivered  wuz:  "Drain — 
See  Tile."  This  wuz  in  1859,  and  the  cyclopeedy  had  only  got  down 
to  G. 

The  cow  wuz  sick  with  lung  fever  one  spell,  and  Leander  laid  her 
dyin'  to  that  cussed  cyclopeedy,  'cause  when  he  went  to  readin'  'bout 
cows  it  told  him  to  "See  Zoology." 

But  M'hat's  the  use  of  harrowin'  up  one's  feelin's  talkin'  'nd  thinkin' 
about  these  things?  Leander  got  so  after  a  while  that  the  cyclopeedy 
didn't  worry  him  at  all;  he  grew  to  look  at  it  ez  one  of  the  crosses  that 
human  critters  has  to  bear  without  complainin'  through  this  vale  uv  tears. 
The  only  thing  that  bothered  him  wuz  the  fear  that  mebbe  he  wouldn't 
live  to  see  the  last  volyume — to  tell  the  truth,  this  kind  uv  got  to  be  his 
hobby,  an'  I've  heern  him  talk  'bout  it  many  a  time  settin'  round  the 
stove  at  the  tavern.  His  wife,  Hattie,  passed  away  with  the  yaller 
janders  the  winter  W  come,  and  all  thet  seemed  to  reconcile  Leander  to 
survivin'  her  wuz  the  prospect  uv  seein'  the  last  volyume  of  that  cyclo- 
peedy. Lemuel  Higgins,  the  book-agent,  had  gone  to  his  everlastin'  pun- 
ishment; but  his  son,  Hiram,  had  succeeded  to  his  father's  business  'nd 
continued  to  visit  the  folks  his  old  man  had  roped  in.  By  this  time 
Leander's  children  had  growed  up;  all  on  'em  wuz  married,  and  there 
wuz  numeris  grandchildren  to  amuse  the  old  gentleman.  But  Leander 
wuzn't  to  be  satisfied  with  the  common  things  uv  airth ;  he  didn't  seem . 
to  take  no  pleasure  in  his  grandchildren  like  most  men  do;  his  mind 
wuz  allers  sot  on  somethin'  else — for  hours  'nd  hours,  yes,  all  day 
long,  he'd  set  out  on  the  front  stoop  lookin'  wistfully  up  the  road  for 
that  book-agent  to  come  along  with  a  cyclopeedy.  He  didn't  want  to 
die  till  he'd  got  all  the  cyclopeedies  his  contract  called  for;  he  wanted 
to  have  everything  straightened  out  before  he  passed  away. 

When— oh,  how  well  I  recollect  it! — when  Y  come  along  he  wuz 


20&  WERNER'S   READINGS 

so  overcome  that  he  fell  in  a  fit  uv  paralysis,  'nd  the  old  gentleman 
never  got  over  it.  For  the  next  three  years  he  drooped  'nd  pined,  and 
seemed  like  he  couldn't  hold  out  much  longer.  Finally  he  had  to 
take  to  his  bed  he  wuz  so  old  'nd  feeble — but  he  made  'em  move  the 
bed  up  aginst  the  winder  so  he  could  watch  for  that  last  volyume  of 
the  cyclopeedy. 

The  end  came  one  balmy  day  in  the  spring  uv  '87.  His  life  wuz 
a-ebbin'  powerful  fast;  the  minister  wuz  there  'nd  me  'nd  rridst  uv 
the  family.  Lovin'  hands  smoothed  the  wrinkled  forehead  'ml  breshed 
back  the  long,  scant,  white  hair,  but  the  eyes  of  the  dyin'  man  wuz  sol 
on  that  piece  uv  road  down  which  the  cyclopeedy  man  alius  come. 

All  to  oncet  a  bright  'nd  joyful  look  come  intc  them  eyes,  'nd  old 
Leander  riz  up  in  bed  'nd  sez,  "It's  come!" 

"What  is  it,  father?"  asked  his  daughter  Sarey,  sobbin'  like. 

"Hush,"  sez  the  minister  solemnly;  "he  sees  the  shinin'  gates  uv 
the  Noo  Jerusalem." 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  aged  man;  "it  is  the  cyclopeedy — the  letter 
Z — it's  comin'!" 

And  sure  enough,  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked  Higgins. 

"Here's  the  Z  cyclopeedy,  Mr.  Hobart,"  sez  he. 

Leander  clutched  it ;  he  hugged  it  to  his  pantin'  bosom ;  then  stealin' 
one  pale  hand  under  the  pillar  he  drew  out  a  faded  banknote  'nd  gave 
it  to  Higgins. 

"I  thank  Thee  for  this  boon,"  sez  Leander,  rollin'  his  eyes  up 
devoutly;    then  he  gave'a  deep  sigh. 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Higgins,  excitedly,  "you've  made  a  mistake,  it 
in't  the  last—" 

But  Leander  didn't  hear  him — his  soul  had  fled  from  its  mortal 
tenement  'nd  hed  soared  rejoicin'  to  realms  uv  everlastin'  bliss. 

"He  is  no  more,"  sez  the  minister. 

"Then  who  are  his  heirs?"  asked  that  mean  critter  Higgins. 

"We  be,"  sez  the  family. 

"Do  you  conjointly  and  severally  acknowledge  and  assume  the 
obligations  of  deceased  to  me?"  he  asked  'em. 

"What  obligations?"  asked  Peasely  Hobart,  stern-like. 

"Deceased  died  owin'  me  for  a  cyclopeedy!"  sez  Higgins. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   33.  209 

"That's  a  lie!"'  sez  Peasley.     "We  all  seen  him  pay  you  for  the  Z!" 
"But  there's  another  one  to  come,"  sez  Higgins. 
"Another?"  they  all  asked. 
"Yes,  the  index,"  sez  he. 

So  there  wuz,  and  I'll  be  eternally  goll-durned  if  he  ain't  a-suin'  the 
estate  in  the  probate  court  now  f'r  the  price  uv  it! 


COURTIN'  THE   WIDDER. 

LIBBIE  C.  BAER. 


Written  Expressly  for  this  Book. 


THE  most  fun  'at  I  ever  had 
Wuz  watchin'  the  widdef  an'  my  dad 
A  courtin',  me  an'  another  lad 

Are  laughin'  about  it  yit; 
A-peekin'  behind  a  tree,  like  this, 
A-\vatchin'  to  see  if  he  would  miss 
Her  cheek  or  git  another  kiss 
Like  the  one  we  see  him  git. 

The  widder  acted  more  the  fool 
Than  any  gal  jist  out  of  school, 
An'  more  contrarier  than  a  mule, 

An'  she  would  holler,  "quit!" 
Then  look  side  foolish- wise  and  say: 
'What  makes  you  act  so  rude  to-day? 
I  have  a  mind  to  run  away, 

I  don't  like  you  one  bit." 

Then  dad  he  said:   "Providin'  you  went 
Thar  aint  no  law  that  could  pervent, 
Besides  I  aint  a-carin'  a  cent 
About  kissin'  you  any-way." 


aiO  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Then  she  got  mad  and  wiped  a  teaT, 
But  when  dad  called  her  his  "own  dear," 
And  swiped  a  kiss  behind  her  ear, 
She  -seemed  content  to  stay. 

Dad  asked  her  if  she'd  marry  him, 

She  said:   "  Yeou  know  I  love  you,  Jim," 

And  then  I  whispered  low  to  Tim, 

"I  think  we  better  git!" 
But  jist  before  I  left  that  tree 
I  heard  her  say  that  she  would  be 
A  wife  to  him  and  a  mother  to  me— 

I  don't  like  that  one  bit! 
But 

then 
you 

bet 

your 

rubber- 
boots, 
She'll  git  the  worst  of  it! 


"MERCHANT  OF  VENICE"  TOLD   IN   SCOTCH. 


CHARLES  READE. 


Characters:    Christie  Johnstone,  a  Scotch  fishwife. 
Flucker  Johnstone,  Christie's  brother. 

[  fishwives. 
Lizzie       J 

A  MERRY  dance,  succeeding  a  merry  song,  had  ended,  and  they 
were  in  the  midst  of  an  interesting  story.  Christie  Johnstone 
was  the  narrator.  She  had  found  the  tale  in  one  o!  the  Viscount's 
books;   it  had  made  a  great  impression  on  her. 

"Aweel,  lasses,  here  are  the  three  wee  kists  set     the  lads  are  to 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.   33.  2 II 

chuse;  the  ane  that  chuses  reicht  is  to  get  Porsha,  an'  the  lave  to  get 
the  bag,  and  dee  baitchelars;  Flucker  Johnstone,  you  that's  sae  clever, 
are  ye  for  gowd  or  siller,  or  leed?" 

Jean.     "  Gowd  for  me. " 

Lizzte.     "The  white  siller's  my  taste." 

Flucker.  "Na!  there's  aye  some  deevelish  trick  in  thir  lassie's 
stories.  I  shall  lie-to,  till  the  ihter  lads  are  chused;  the  mair.  part 
will  put  themsels  oot;  ane  will  hit  it  off  reicht  may  be;  then  I  shall  gie 
him  a  hidin'  an'  carry  off  the  lass.     You-hoo!" 

Jean.     "That's  you,  Flucker." 

Christie.  "And  div  ye  really  think  we  are  gawn  to  let  you  see 
a'  the  world  chuse!  Na,  lad;  ye  are  putten  oot  o'  the  room,  like  wit- 
nesses!" 

Fluc.  "Then  I'd  toss  a  penny;  for  gien  ye  trust  to  luck,  she 
whiles  favors  ye;  but  gien  ye  commence  to  reason  and  argefy,  ye're 
done'" 

Chr.  "The  suitors  had  na  your  wit,  my  manny,  or  maybe  they 
had  na  a  penny  to  toss,  sae  ane  chused  the  gowd,  ane  the  siller;  but 
they  got  an  awfu'  affront.  The  gold  kist  had  just  a  skull  intill  't, 
and  the  siller  a  deed  cuddy's  head!  An'  Porsha  puttit  the  pair  of 
gowks  to  the  door.  Then  came  Bassanio,  the  lad  fra  Veeneece,  that 
Porsha  Io'ed  in  secret.  Veeneece,  lasses,  is  a  wonderful  city;  the 
streets  o't  are  water,  and  the  carriages  are  boats — that's  in  Chambers." 

Fluc.     "Wha  are  ye  makin'  a  fool  o'?" 

Chr.     "What's  wrang?" 

Fluc.     "Yon's  just  as  big  a  lee  as  ever  I  heerd. " 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  ere  he  had  reason  to 
regret  them;  a  severe  box  on  the  ear  was  administered  by  his  indig- 
nant sister.     Nobody  pitied  him. 

Chr.     "I'll  learn  ye  t'   affront  me  before  a'   the  company." 

Jean.     "Suppose  it's  a  lee,  there's  nae  siller  to  pay  for  it,  Flucker." 

Chr.     "Jean,  I  never  telt  a  lee  in  a'  my  days." 

Jean.     "There's  ane  to  begin  wi'  then.     Go  ahead,  Custy. " 

Chr.  "She  bade  the  music  play  for  him.  for  music  brightens 
thoucht;  ony  way,  he  chose  the  leed  kist.  Open'st  and  wasn't  there 
Porsha's  pictur,  and  a  posy,  that  said: 


212  WERNER'S  READINGS 

'If  you  be  well  pleased  with  this, 

And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss; 

Turn  you  where  your  leddy  iss, 

And  greet  her  wi'  a  loving — '  "     [Pause.] 

"Kess, "  roared  the  company.     [Chorus  led  by  Flucker:  "Hurraih!] 

Chr.  [pathetically].  "Flucker,  behave!  Aweel,  lassies,  comes  a 
letter  to  Bassanio;  he  reads  it,  and  turns  as  pale  as  deeth.  Porsha 
behooved  to  ken  his  grief;  wha  had  a  better  reicht?  'Here's  a  letter, 
leddy,'  says  he;  'the  paper's  the  boody  of  my  freend,  like,  and  every 
word  in  it  a  gaping  wound.'  " 

Jean.     "Maircy  on  us!" 

Chr.  "Lass,  it  was  fra  puir  Antonio:  ye  mind  o'  him,  lasses. 
Hech!  the  ill-luck  o'  yon  man;  no  a  ship  come  hame:  ane  foundered 
at  sea,  coming  fra  Tri-po-lis;  the  pirates  scuttled  another,  an'  ane 
ran  ashore  on  the  Goodwins,  near  Bright-helm-stane,  that's  in  Eng- 
land itsel',  I  daur  say:  sae  he  could  na  pay  the  three  thoosand  ducats, 
an'  Shylock  had  grippit  him,  an'  sought  the  pund  o'  flesh  aff  the  breest 
o'  him,  puir  boedy.  Porsha  keepit  her  man  but  ae  hoor  till  they  were 
united,  an'  then  sent  him  wi'  a  puckle  o'  her  ain  siller  to  Veeneece  and 
Antonio.     Think  o'  that,  lassies, — pairted  on  their  wedding-day." 

Liz.     "Hech!   hech!   it's  lamentable." 

Jean.  "I'm  saying,  mairriage  is  quick  wark  in  some  pairts;  here 
there's  an  awfu'  trouble  to  get  a  man. " 

Chr.  "Fill  your  taupsels,  lads  and  lasses,  and  awa  to  Veeneece. 
Noo,  we  are  in  the  hall  o'  judgment.  Here  are  set  the  judges,  awfu' 
to  behold;  there,  on  his  throne,  presides  the  Juke.  Here,  pale  and 
hopeless,  but- resigned,  stands  the  broken  mairchant,  Antonio;  there, 
wi'  scales  and  knives,  and  revenge  in  his  murderin'  eye,  stands  the 
crewel  Jew  Shylock.  They  wait  for  Bell — I  dinna  mind  his  name-- 
a  laerned  lawyer,  ony  way;  he's  sick,  but  sends  ane  mair  laerned 
still,  and  when  this  ane  comes,  he  looks  not  older  nor  wiser  than  mysel'." 

Fluc.     "No  possible!" 

Chr.  "Ye  needna  be  sae  sarcy,  Flucker;  for  when  he  comes  to 
his  wark  he  soon  lets  'em  ken — runs  his  een  like  lightning  ower  the 
boend.     'This  boend's  forfeit.     Is  Antonio  not  able  to  dischairge  the 


AND    RECITATIONS  NO.   33.  213 

money?'  'Ay!'  cries  Bassanio,  'here's  the  sum  thrice  told.'  Says  the 
young  judge,  in  a  bit  whisper  to  Shylock,  'Shylock,  there's  thrice  thy 
money  offered  thee.  Be  mairciful,'  says  he,  out  loud.  'Wha'll  mak 
me?'  says  the  Jew  boedy!  'Mak  ye!'  says  he;  'maircy  is  no  a  thing  ye 
strain  through  a  seive,  mon;  it  droppeth  like  the  gentle  dew  fra  heaven 
upon  the  place  beneath;  it  blesses  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes; 
it  becomes  the  king  better  than  his  throne,  and  airthly  power  is  maist 
like  God's  power  when  maircy  seasons  justice.'  " 

Jean.  "Sae  he  let  the  puir  deevil  go.  Oh!  ye  ken  wha  could 
stand  up  against  siccan  a  shower  o'  Ennglish  as  thaat. " 

Chr.  "He  just  said,  'My  deeds  upon  my  head.  I  claim  the  law,' 
says  he;  'there  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  o'  man  to  alter  me.  I  stay 
here  on  my  boend.'  Aweel,  the  young  judge  rises  to  deliver  the  sen- 
tence of  the  coort.  Silence!"  thundered  Christie.  "A  pund  o'  that 
same  mairchant's  flesh  is  thine!  The  coort  awards  it,  and  the  law 
does  give  it.'  " 

Liz.  "There,  I  thoucht  sae;  he's  gaun  to  cut  him,  he's  gaun  to 
cut  him;    I'll  no  can  bide!"     [Exits  but  soon  returns.] 

Chr.  "There's  a  fulish  goloshen.  'Have  by  a  doctor  to  stop 
the  blood.'     'I  see  nae  doctor  in  the  boend,'  says  the  Jew  boedy." 

Fluc.  "Bait  your  hook  wi'  a  boend,  and  ye  shall  catch  yon  carle's 
saul,  Satan,  my  lad." 

Chr.  [with  dismal  pathos].  "O  Flucker,  dinna  speak  evil  o' 
deegnities — that's  maybe  fishing  for  yoursel'  the  noo!  'An'  ye  shall 
cut  the  flesh  fra  e  off  his  breest.'  'A  sentence,'  says  Shylock;  'come, 
prepare.'" 

Christie  made  a  dash  en  Shylock,  and  the  company  trembled. 

Chr.     "  'Bide  a  wee,'  says  the  judge;    'this  boend' gies  ye  na  a 
drap  o'  bluid;    the  words  expressly  are,  'a  pund  o'  flesh!'" 
[.4  dramatic  pause] 

Jp:an  [drawing  her  breath].     "That's  into  your  mutton,  Shylock." 

Chr.  [with  dismal  pathos].  "O  Jean!  yon's  an  awful'  voolgar 
exprassion  to  come  fra'  a  woman's  mooth." 

Liz.  [confirming  the  remonstrance].  "Could  ye  no  hae  said, 
'intil  his  bacon'?" 

Chr.     "'Then  tak  your  boend,  an'  your  pund  o'  flesh;  but  in  cut- 


214  WERNER'S   READINGS 

ting  o't,  if  thou  dost  shed  one  drop  of  Christian  bluid,  thou  diest! 
Thy  goods  are  by  the  laws  of  Yeeneece  con-fis-cate,  confiscate!'" 

Then,  like  an  artful  narrator,  she  began  lo  wind  up  the  story  more 
rapidly.  "Sae  Shylock  got  to  be  no  sac  saucy:  'Pay  die-  boend  thrice/ 
says  he,  'and  let  the  puir  deevil  go.'  'Here  it's,'  says  Bassanio.  Na! 
the  young  judge  wadna  let  him.  'He  has  refused  it  in  open  court: 
no  a  bawbee  for  Shylock  but  just  the  forfeiture;  an'  he  daur  na  tak 
it!'  'I'm  awa','  says  he.  'The  deivel  tak  ye  a'.'  Na!  he  was  na 
to  win  clear  sae;  ance  they'd  gotten  the  Jew  on  the  hep  the}'  worried 
him,  like  good  Christians,  that's  a  fact.  The  judge  fand  a  law  that 
fitted  him,  for  conspiring  against  the  life  of  a  citizen;  an'  he  behooved 
him  to  give  up  hoose  an'  lands,  and  be  a  Christian;  and  his  dochter 
had  rin  off  wi'  a  Christian  lad — they  ca'  her  Jessica;  and  didn't  she 
steal  his  very  diamond  ring  that  his  ain  lass  gied  him  when  he  was 
young,  an'  maybe  no  sae  hardhairted?" 

Jean.  "Oh,  the  jaud!  Suppose  he  was  a  Jew,  it  was  na  her 
business  to  clean  him  oot.  " 

Liz.     "Aweel,  it  was  only  a  Jew  boedy,  that's  my  comfort." 
Chr.     "Ye  speak  as  a  Jew  was  na  a  man.     Has  not  a  Jew  eyes_. 
if  ye  please?" 

Liz.     "Ay,  has  he! — and  the  awfuest  lang  neb  atween  'em." 
Chr.     "Has  not  a  Jew  affections,  paassions,  orrgans?" 
Jean.     "Na!   Christie;   thir  lads  comes  fra  Italy!" 
Chr.     "If  you  prick  him,  does  he  not  bleed?     If  you  tickle  him 
does  na  he  laugh?" 

Liz.  [pertly],  "I  never  kittled  a  Jew,  for  my  part;  sae  I'll  no  can 
tell  ye. " 

Chr.  "If  you  poison  him,  does  he  not  die?  and  if  you  wrang 
him  [with  jury],  shall  he  not  revenge?  Yon  was  a  soor  drap;  he 
tarned  no  weel,  puir  auld  villain,  an'  scairtit ;  an'  the  lawyers  sent  ane 
o'  their  weary  parchments  till  his  hoose,  and  the  puir  auld  heathen 
signed  awa'  his  siller,  an'  Abraham,  an'  Isaac,  an'  Jacob,  on  the  heed 
o't.  I  pity  him,  an'  auld,  auld  man.  Wha'll  give  me  a  sang  for  my 
bonnv  varn?" 


AND    REGIT ATIOXS   NO.   33.  215 


"GRANTHER'S    GUN." 


LEXINGTON,    1840. 

CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB. 


[From   "  With   Lead   and    Line."      Used   by   permission   of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &   Co. 
publishers.] 


[Suited  to  Patriot's  Day,  April  19.] 

I    MIND  me  well  when  I  was  young, 
Upon  the  wall  a  musket  hung, 
Old,  useless,  clumsy  to  the  sight; 
But  still  we  scoured  and  kept  it  bright. 
The  neighbors  all  knew  " Gran'ther's  Gun;" 
He  carried  it  at  Lexington. 

The  dear  old  man  was  very  old, 

His  years  himself  scarce  could  have  told; 

Forgot  all  else  about  the  war, — 

Forgot  e'en  that  he  bore  a  scar; 

To  all  we  asked  he  had  but  one 

Reply,  "I  fought  at  Lexington." 

'Gran'ther,"  we  said,  "you're  very  old, 
Quite  ninety  years  have  o'er  you  rolled; 
When  you  were  young  some  things  were  new, 
The  town,  and  people  in  it,  too: 
What  had  you  in  those  days  for  fun?" 
He  said,  "We  fought  at  Lexington!" 

'Gran'ther,"  we  said,  "some  persons  say 
That  when  one's  locks  get  thin  and  gray, 
One  wishes,  though  the  wish  be  vain, 
His  life  he  could  live  o'er  again: 
What  would  you  do  that  you  have  done?" 
He  said,  "I'd  fight  at  Lexington!" 


2l6  WERNER'S   READINGS 

One  morn  we  knew  the  end  was  near; 
A  distant  drum  he  seemed  to  hear. 
When,  kneeling  low  beside  the  bed, 
The  minister,  to  comfort,  said, 
"Know'st  thou,  old  friend,  the  fight  is  won?" 
Those  bending  near  caught,  "Lexington." 

We  buried  him  upon  the  lands 

For  which  he  fought,  where  Concord  stands; 

The  granite  slab  we  sank  in  earth 

Bore  name  and  age  and  place  of  birth; 

Else  of  inscription  read  you  none 

Save  this,  "He  fought  at  Lexington." 


THE   BOY   ORATOR   OF  ZEPATA   CITY. 


RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS. 

THE  day  was  cruelly  hot.  It  was  an  eventful  day  in  the  history 
of  Zepata  City.  The  court-house  had  been  long  in  coming, 
but  at  last  it  stood,  a  proud  and  hideous  fact.  It  seemed  a  particu- 
larly appropriate  circumstance  that  the  first  business  in  the  new  court- 
room should  be  something  that  .dealt  not  only  with  the  present,  but 
with  the  past  of  Zepata;  that  the  trial  of  so  celebrated  an  individual 
as  Abe  Barrow  should  open  the  court-house  with  eclat. 

Abe  Barrow,  the  prisoner,  had  killed,  in  his  day,  several  of  the 
Zepata  citizens,  and  the  corner  where  his  gambling-house  had  stood 
was  still  known  as  Barrow's  corner. 

Ten  years  before  the  day  of  our  story  the  murder  of  Deputy- Sheriff 
Welsh  had  led  Barrow  to  the  penitentiary,  and  a  month  previous  he 
had  been  freed  and  arrested  at  the  prison-gate  to  stand  trial  for  the 
murder  of  Hubert  Thompson.  The  fight  with  Thompson  had  been 
a  fair  fight,  and  Thompson  was  a  man  they  could  well  spare,  bit  die 
case  against  Barrow  had  been  prepared  during  his  imprisonment  by 
the  new  and  youthful  District-Attorney,  Henry  Harvey — the  Boy 
Orator  of  Zepata  City,  as  he  was  called. 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.   jj.  217 

The  court-room,  crowded  even  to  the  sills  of  the  open  windows, 
was  as  bare  of  ornaments  as  the  cell  from  which  the  prisoner  had  just 
been  taken.  The  judge  sat  at  the  back  of  the  room;  below  was  the 
green  table  of  Henry  Harvey;  to  one  side  sat  the  jury,  ranch-owners, 
and  prominent  citizens,  proud  of  having  to  serve  on  this  first  day, 
and  on  the  other  the  prisoner  in  his  box.  Colonel  John  Stogart,  of 
Dallas,  the  prisoner's  attorney,  procured  at  great  expense,  no  one 
knew  by  whom,  and  Barrow's  wife,  a  thin,  yellow-faced  woman,  sat 
at  Harvey's  elbow.     She  was  the  only  woman  in  the  room. 

Colonel  Stogart's  speech  was  good,  and  it  was  well  that  the  best 
lawyer  of  Dallas  should  be  present  on  this  occasion,  and  that  he  should 
make  what  the  citizens  of  Zepata  were  proud  to  believe  was  one  of  the 
efforts  of  his  life.  Colonel  Stogart  proved  murder  in  the  second  de- 
gree. 

Young  Henry  Harvey  arose.  He  was  very  dear  to  the  people  of 
that  booming  town.  In  their  eyes  he  was  one  of  the  most  promising 
men  in  the  whole  great  unwieldy  state  of  Texas.  He  was  clever  in  his 
words,  in  his  deeds,  and  in  his  appearance.  He  saw  all  the  men  he  knew 
— the  men  who  made  his  little  world — crowding  silently  forward, 
forgetful  of  the  heat,  of  the  suffocating  crush  of  those  about  them,  of 
the  wind  that  rattled  the  doors  in  the  corridors,  and  conscious  only 
of  him.  He  saw  the  rival  lawyer  from  the  great  city  nervously  smil- 
ing; and  he  saw  the  face  of  the  prisoner,  grim,  set,  and  hopelessly  de- 
fiant. The  Boy  Orator  allowed  his  uplifted  arm  to  fall  until  the  fingers 
pointed  at  the  prisoner. 

"That  man,"  he  said,  "is  no  part  or  parcel  of  Zepata  City  of  to- 
day. He  comes  to  us  a  relic  of  the  past — a  past  that  has  brought 
honor  to  many,  wealth  to  some,  and  which  is  dear  to  all  of  us  who  love 
the  completed  purpose  of  their  work.  But  the  part  this  man  played 
in  that  past  lives  only  in  the  rude  court  records  of  that  day,  in  the 
traditions  of  the  gambling-hell,  and  the  saloons,  and  on  the  head-stones 
of  his  victims. 

"The  same  chance  that  was  given  to  all  to  make  a  home  in  the 
wilderness,  to  assist  in  the  civilization  and  progress,  not  only  of  this 
city,  but  of  the  whole  Lone  Star  State,  was  given  to  him,  and  he  re- 
fused it,  and  blocked  the  way  of  others,  and  kept  back  the  march  of 


218  WERNER'S    READINGS 

progress,  until  to-day,  civilization,  which  has  waxed  great  and  strong — 
not  on  account  of  him,  but  in  spite  of  him — sweeps  him  out  of  its  way, 
and  crushes  him  and  his  fellows.  Gentlemen,  the  bad  man  has  become 
an  unknown  quantity  in  Zepata,  and  in  the  State  of  Texas.  It  lies 
with  you  to  see  that  he  remains  so.  He  went  out  of  existence  with 
the  blanket  Indian  and  the  buffalo.  We  want  men  who  can  breed  good 
cattle,  who  can  build  manufactories  and  open  banks;  storekeepers 
who  can  undersell  those  of  other  cities,  and  professional  men  who 
know  their  business.  We  do  not  want  desperadoes  and  faro-dealers 
and  men  who  are  quick  on  the  trigger.  This  man  Abe  Barrow  be- 
longs to  that  class.  Free  him  to-day  and  you  set  a  premium  on  such 
reputations :  acquit  him  of  this  crime  you  encourage  others  to  like  evil. 
Let  him  go  and  he  will  walk  the  streets  with  a  swagger,  and  boast 
that  you  were  afraid  to  touch  him — afraid,  gentlemen — and  children 
and  women  will  point  after  him  as  the  man  who  has  sent  nine  others 
into  eternity  and  who  yet  walks  the  streets  a  free  man.  And  he  will 
become  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  and  the  weak  a  hero  and  a  god. 

"For  the  last  ten  years,  your  Honor,  this  man,  Abner  Barrow,  has 
been  serving  a  term  of  imprisonment  in  the  state  penitentiary;  I  ask 
you  to  send  him  back  there  again  for  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

"Abe  Barrow  is  out  of  date.  What  is  his  part  in  this  new  court- 
house which  to-day  for  the  first  time  throws  open  its  doors  to  protect 
the  just  and  punish  the  unjust?  Is  he  there  in  the  box  among  those 
honorable  men,  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  ?  Is  he  in  that  great  crowd 
of  intelligent,  public-spirited  citizens  who  make  the  bone  and  sinew 
of  this  our  fair  city?  Is  he  on  the  honored  bench  dispensing  justice 
and  making  the  intricacies  of  the  law  straight?  No,  gentlemen;  he 
is  there  in  the  prisoner's-pen,  an  outlaw,  a  convicted  murderer,  and  an 
unconvicted  assassin.  Place  him  in  the  cell  where  he  belongs,  and 
from  whence,  had  justice  been  done,  he  would  never  have  been  taken 
alive." 

The  Boy  Orator  sat  down  suddenly  with  a  quick  nod  to  the  judge 
and  jury.  He  noted  the  whispers  of  the  crowd  and  the  quick  and 
combined  movement  of  the  jury  with  a  sweet,  selfish  pleasure,  and 
was  conscious  of  nothing  until  the  foreman  announced  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar  guilty  of  murder  in  the  second  degree, 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.   33.  219 

The  judge  leaned  across  his  desk.  "Before  I  deliver  sentence  on 
you,  Abner  Barrow,"  he  said,  "is  there  anything  you  have  to  say  in 
your  own  behalf?" 

A  tall  broad-shouldered  man  leaned  heavily  forward  over  the  bar 
of  the  prisoner's-desk.  His  face  was  white  with  prison  tan,  pinched, 
hollow-eyed  and  worn.  When  he  spoke,  his  voice  had  the  huskiness 
of  non-use,  and  broke  like  a  child's. 

"I  don't  know,  judge,  that  I  have  anything  to  say — in  my  own  be- 
half. I  don't  know  as  it  would  be  any  use.  I  guess  what  the  gentle- 
man said  was  about  right.  I've  had  my  fun,  and  I've  got  to  pay  for 
it — that  is,  I  thought  it  was  fun  at  the  time.  I'm  not  going  to  cry  any 
baby  act  and  beg  off  or  anything,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  But  there 
is  something  I'd  like  to  say  if  I  thought  you'd  believe  mc. 

"All  that  man  said  of  me  is  true.  I  am  a  back  number;  I  am  out 
of  date;  I  am  a  loafer  and  a  blackguard.  I  never  shot  any  man  in 
the  back,  nor  I  never  assassinated  no  one,  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there.  I'm  not  backing  down  now.  Whatever  you  please  to  make 
my  punishment,  I'll  take  it  and  that  makes  it  harder  for  me  to  ask 
what  I  want  to  ask. 

"That  man  there  told  you  I  had  no  part  or  parcel  in  this  city  or 
in  this  world;  that  I  belonged  to  the  past;  that  I  ought  to  be  dead. 
Now,  that's  not  so.  I  have  just  one  thing  that  belongs  to  this  city, 
and  this  world,  and  to  me;  one  thing  that  I  couldn't  take  to  jail  with 
me  and  that  I'll  have  to  leave  behind  me  when  I  go  back  to  it.  I  mean 
my  wife. 

"You  sir,  remember  her,  sir,  when  I  married  her,  twelve  years  ago. 
She  was  Henry  Holman's  daughter.  I  took  her  from  her  home  against 
his  wish,  sir,  to  live  with  me  over  my  dance-hall.  She  gave  up  every 
thing  a  woman  ought  to  have  to  come  to  me.  She  thought  she  was 
going  to  be  happy,  I  guess.  Well,  maybe  she  was  happy  for  about 
two  weeks,  and  after  that  her  life  was  hell,  and  I  made  it  hell,  and 
when  I  was  drunk  I  beat  her. 

"At  the  end  of  two  years  I  killed  Welsh,  and  they  sent  me  to  the 
penitentiary  for  ten  years  and  she  was  free.  She  could  have  gone 
back  to  her  folks  and  got  a  divorce,  if  she'd  wanted  to,  and  never 
seen  me  again.     But  what  did  this  woman  do — my  wife— the  woman 


220  WERNER'S   READINGS 

I'd  misused  and  beat?  She  sold  out  the  place  and  bought  a  ranch 
with  the  money,  and  worked  it  by  herself,  and  worked  day  and  night 
until  in  ten  years  she  had  made  herself  an  old  woman,  as  you  see  she 
is  to-day. 

"And  for  what?  To  get  me  free  again;  to  bring  me  things  to  eat 
in  jail,  and  picture  papers  and  tobacco — working  to  pay  for  a  lawyer 
to  fight-for  me — to  pay  for  the  best  lawyer.  Working  in  the  fields 
with  her  own  hands,  working  as  I  never  worked  for  myself  in  my 
whole  lazy,  rotten  life  And  what  I  want  to  ask  of  you,  sir,  is  to  let 
me  have  two  years  out  of  jail  to  show  her  how  I  feel  about  it.  Give 
me  just  two  years — two  years  of  my  life  while  I  have  some  strength 
left  to  work  for  her  as  she  worked  for  me.  I  had  the  chance  and  I 
wouldn't  take  it,  and  now  I  want  to  show  her  that  I  know  and  under- 
stand now  when  it's  too  late.  I  can't!  It's  too  late!  It's  too  late! 
Send  me  back  for  thirty  years,  but  not  for  life.  My  God!  Judge, 
don't  bury  me  alive  as  that  man  asked  you  to." 

For  a  moment  no  one  moved. 

Judge  Truax  raised  his  head.  "It  lies  at  the  discretion  of  this 
court  to  sentence  the  prisoner  to  a  term  of  imprisonment  of  two  years, 
>ir  for  an  indefinite  period,  or  for  life.  Owing  to — on  account  of 
certain  circumstances  which  have  arisen — this  sentence  is  suspended. 
This  court  stands — adjourned. 


MARIE'S    LITTLE    LAMB. 


[The  Canadian  French  dialect  combines  the  English,  French,  and 
Indian  tongues.  One  of  its  peculiarities  is  that  he  is  always  used  for 
she  and  vice  versa.  The  following  selection  has  been  well  received 
as  an  encore.] 


MARIE  wan  little  lam  eel  ave,  jes  wan 
Wite  her  fleece  iak  snow 
Hon  top  hevervting  Marie  been  past 
De  lam  bene  walk  halso. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   33,  221 

She'll  follow  hon  dee  school  wan  clay 

Han  hall  broke  hup  dere  rule 
Dee  cheeldren  hall  mak  laf  han  play 

Wen  dem  lam  pass  hon  dee  school. 

Den  dem  teachaire  turn  her  hout 

De  lam  she'll  stay  hon  dere 
Patientdee  she  wait  habout 

For  Marie  been  happear. 

Den  she's  run  hat  Marie 

Trow  her  'ead  huppon  ees  arm 
Jes  lak  she'll  say  Mah-a-a  Marie  dear 

Been  keep  me  from  some  harm. 

For  wy  dem  lam  love  Marie  so 

Dey  hax  each  wan  dem  scholar 
Marie's  lots  love  dat  lam  hal  know 

Dem  teacher  ees  been  'ooller. 


DARKEY    INNOCENCE, 


J.  W.  MORGAN. 

YER  say  I  stole  dat  chicken,  boss, 
An'  ketched  me  in  de  ac',  sah! 
Well,  'pearances  et  present  iz 

Agin'  me  fur  a  fac',  sah, 
But  I'se  er  honest  nigger,  boss — 

I  preaches  down  in  Macon, 
An'  neber  libs  on  lux'ries,  boss, 
'Cep  cabbage,  co'n  an'  bacon. 

De  trufe  ob  de  hole  matter  iz, 
I'se  comin'  hyar  ter  borrer 

A  cupple  ob  sticks  ob  wood  agin 
De  Sunday  supe  termorrer, 


222  WERNER'S   READINGS 

An'  az  I  came  in  froo  de  gate 
I  heard  a  powful  noise  dar 

In  dat  hen-house,  an'  1  jes  ran 
Ter  ketch  some  ob  de  boys  dar. 

I  'spec  dat  nigger  Sam  waz  out 

On  one  ob  hiz  perditions, 
But  turned  out  dat  dar  chick  waz  in 

Er  kurious  persition. 
He  got  hiz  head  froo  two  de  slats, 

Er  floppin'  an'  er  fhrtin', 
An'  I  jes  pulled  'im  out  ter  see 

.Ei  any  thing  had  hurt  'im. 

I  had  ter  break  de  slat  den,  kase 

I  couldn't  pull  'im  bac',  boss, 
An'  when  yer  came  I'se  on  de  pint 

Ob  callin'  yer — a  fac',  boss, 
An'  so  yer  see,  I'se  innercent 

Ob  any  'zire  ter  'ceal  it, 
Kase  dat  dar  nigger  Sam's  de  tief 

Wat  put  me  up  ter  steal  it. 


THE   LUCK   OF   ROARING   CAMP. 
BRET  HARTE. 


THERE  was  commotion  in  Roaring  Camp.  The  ditches  and 
claims  were  not  only  deserted,  but  ''Tuttle's  Grocery"  had 
contributed  its  gamblers,  who,  it  will  be  remembered,  calmly  continued 
their  game  the  day  that  French  Pete  and  Kanaka  Joe  shot  each  other 
to  death  over  the  bar  in  the  front  room.  The  whole  camp  was  col- 
lected before  a  rude  cabin  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  clearing. 

The  situation  was  novel.     Deaths  were  by  no  means  uncommon 
in  Roaring  Camp,  but  a  birth  was  a  new  thing. 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.    33.  223 

"You  go  in  there,  Stumpy,"  said  a  prominent  citizen  known  as 
'Kentuck,'  addressing  one  of  the  loungers.  "Go  in  there  and  see 
what  you  kin  do.     You've  had  experience  in  them  things." 

Perhaps  there  was  a  fitness  in  the  selection.  Stumpy,  in  other 
climes,  had  been  the  putative  head  of  two  families;  in  fact  it  was  owing 
to  some  legal  informality  in  these  proceedings  that  Roaring  Camp — 
a  city  of  refuge — was  indebted  to  his  company.  The  crowd  approved 
the  choice,  and  Stumpy  was  wise  enough  to  bow  to  the  majority. 

By  degrees,  the  natural  levity  of  Roaring  Camp  returned.  In 
the  midst  of  an  excited  discussion,  an  exclamation  came  from  those 
nearest  the  door,  and  the  camp  stopped  to  listen.  Above  the  swaying 
and  moaning  of  the  pines,  the  swift  rush  of  the  river  and  the  crack- 
ling of  the  fire,  rose  a  sharp,  querulous  cry, — a  cry  unlike  anything 
heard  before  in  that  camp.     The  camp  rose  to  its  feet  as  one  man. 

Within  an  hour, t  the  mother  climbed,  as  it  were,  that  rugged  road 
that  led  to  the  stars,  and  so  passed  out  of  Roaring  Camp,  its  sin  and 
shame  forever.  The  door  of  the  cabin  opened  and  an  anxious  crowd 
of  men  entered  the  room  in  single  file.  Beside  the  low  bunk  or  shelf 
on  which  the  figure  of  the  woman  was  starkly  outlined  below  the 
blankets,  stood  a  pine  table.  On  this  a  candle-box  was  placed,  and 
within  it,  swathed  in  staring  red  flannel,  lay  the  last  arrival  at  Roaring 
Camp.  Beside  the  candle-box  was  placed  a  hat.  Its  use  was  soon 
indicated.  "Gentlemen,"  said  Stumpy,  "will  please  pass  in  at  the 
front  door,  round  the  table,  and  out  at  the  back  door.  Them  as  wishes 
to  contribute  anything  toward  the  orphan  will  find  a  hat  handy. " 

Only  one  incident  occurred  to  break  the  monotony  of  the  curious 
piocession.  As  Kentuck  bent  over  the  candle-box  half  curiously,  the 
child  turned,  and,  in  a  spasm  of  pain,  caught  at  his  groping  finger 
and  held  it  fast  for  a  moment.  Kentuck  looked  foolish  and  em- 
barrassed. Something  like  a  blush  tried  to  assert  itself  in  his  weather- 
beaten  cheek.  He  held  that  finger  a  little  apart  from  its  fellows,  as 
he  went  out,  and  examined  it  curiously. 

It  was  four  o'clock  before  the  camp  sought  repose.  A  light  burnt 
in  the  cabin  where  the  watchers  sat,  for  Stumpy  did  not  go  to  bed 
that  night,  nor  did  Kentuck.  He  walked  up  the  gulch,  past  the  cabin, 
whistling  with   demonstrative   unconcern.     At    a   large  redwood   tree 


224  WERNER'S   READINGS 

he  paused  and  retraced  his  steps,  and  again  passed  the  cabin.  Half- 
way down  to  the  river's  bank  he  again  paused,  and  then  returned  and 
knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  Stumpy.  "How  goes  it?" 
said  Kentuck,  looking  past  Stumpy  toward  the  canclle-box.  "All 
serene,"  replied  Stumpy. 

"Anything  up?" 

"Nothing." 

There  was  a  pause,  an  embarrassing  one,  Stumpy  still  holding  the 
door.  Then  Kentuck  had  recourse  to  his  finger,  which  he  held  up  to 
Stumpy.     "Rastled  with  it,  the  little  cuss,"  he  said. 

The  next  day,  the  woman  had  such  rude  sepulture  as  Roaring 
Camp  afforded.  After  her  body  had  been  committed  to  the  hillside, 
there  was  a  formal  meeting  of  the  camp  to  discuss  what  should  be 
done  with  her  infant.  A  resolution  to  adopt  it  was  unanimous  and 
enthusiastic. 

The  introduction  of  a  female  nurse  in  the  camp  was  met  with 
objection.  Stumpy,  when  questioned,  averred  stoutly  that  he  could 
manage  to  rear  the  child.  There  was  something  original,  independent 
and  heroic  about  the  plan  that  pleased  the  camp.  Stumpy  was  re- 
tained. 

Strange  to  say,  the  child  thrived.  Perhaps  the  invigorating  climate 
of  the  mountain  camp  was  compensation  for  maternal  deficiencies. 
By  the  time  he  was  a  month  old,  the  necessity  of  giving  him  a  name 
became  apparent.  Gamblers  and  adventurers  are  generally  super- 
stitious, and  Oakhurst  one  day  declared  that  the  baby  had  brought 
"the  luck"  to  Roaring  Camp.  It  was  certain  that  of  late  they  had 
been  successful.  "Luck"  was  the  name  agreed  upon,  with  the  pre- 
fix of  Tommy  for  greater  convenience.  A  day  was  accordingly  set 
apart  for  the  christening.  The  master  of  ceremonies  was  one  "  Boston," 
a  noted  wag,  and  the  occasion  seemed  to  promise  the  greatest  face- 
tiousness.  This  ingenious  satirist  had  spent  two  days  in  preparing  a 
burlesque  of  the  church  service,  with  pointed  local  allusions.  The 
choir  was  properly  trained,  and  Sandy  Tipton  was  to  stand  godfather. 

But,  after  the  procession  had  marched  to  (he  grove  with  music 
and  banners,  and  the  child  had  been  deposited  before  a  mock  altar, 
Stumpy  stepped  before  the  expectant  crowd. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO    33.  225 

"It  ain't  my  style  to  spoil  fun,  boys,"  said  the  little  man  stoutly, 
eying  the  faces  around  him,  "but  it  strikes  me  that  this  thing  ain't 
exactly  on  the  squar.  It's  playing  it  pretty  low  down  on  this  yer 
baby  to  ring  in  fun  on  him  that  he  ain't  going  to  understand.  And 
ef  there's  going  to  be  any  godfathers  round,  I'd  like  to  see  who's  got 
any  better  rights  than  me.  " 

A  silence  followed  Stumpy 's  speech.  To  the  credit  of  all  humorists 
be  it  said,  that  the  first  man  to  acknowledge  its  justice  was  the  satirist 
thus  stopped  of  his  fun. 

"But,"  said  Stumpy,  quickly,  following  up  his  advantage,  "we're 
here  for  a  christening  and  we'll  have  it.  I  proclaim  you  Thomas 
Luck,  according  to  the  laws  of  the  United  States  and  the  State  of 
California,  so  help  me  God. "  It  was  the  first  time  that  the  name 
of  the  Deity  had  been  uttered  otherwise  than  profanely  in  the  camp. 

And  so  the  work  of  regeneration  began  in  the  camp.  Almost 
imperceptibly  a  change  came  over  the  settlement.  The  cabin  assigned 
to  "Thomas  Luck"  first  showed  signs  of  improvement.  It  was  kept 
scrupulously  clean  and  white-washed.  Then  it  was  boarded,  clothed 
and  papered.  The  rosewood  cradle — packed  eighty  miles  by  mule — 
had,  in  Stumpy's  way  of  putting  it,  "sorter  killed  the  rest  of  the  fur- 
niture. "  So  the  rehabilitation  of  the  cabin  became  a  necessity. 
Again,  Stumpy  imposed  a  kind  of  quarantine  upon  those  who  aspired 
to  the  honor  and  privilege  of  holding  "The  Luck."  It  was  a  cruel 
mortification  to  Kentuck.  Yet  such-  was  the  subtle  influence  of  inno- 
vation that  he  thereafter  appeared  regularly  every  afternoon  in  a  clean 
shirt,  and  face  still  shining  from  his  ablutions.  The  shouting  and 
yelling  which  had  gained  the  camp  its  infelicitous  title  were  not  per- 
mitted within  hearing  distance  of  Stumpy's.  Vocal  music  was  not 
interdicted,  being  supposed  to  have  a  soothing,  tranquilizing  quality; 
and  one  song,  sung  by  "Man-o'-War  Jack,"  an  English  sailor,  from 
Her  Majesty's  Australian  colonies,  was  quite  popular  as  a  lullaby. 
It  was  a  fine  sight  to  see  Jack  holding  "The  Luck,"  rocking  from 
side  to  side  as  if  with  the  motion  of  a  ship,  and  crooning  forth  his  naval 
ditty.  Either  through  the  peculiar  rocking  of  Jack,  or  the  length  of 
his  song — it  containing  ninety  stanzas,  and  was  continued  with  con- 
scientious deliberation  to .  the  bitter  end — the  lullaby    generally  had 


2  26  WERNER'S   READINGS 

the  desired  effect.  At  such  times,  the  men  would  lie  at  full  length 
under  the  trees,  in  the  soft,  summer  twilight,  smoking  their  pipes  and 
drinking  in  the  melodious  utterances.  An  indistinct  idea  that  this 
was  pastoral  happiness  pervaded  the  camp. 

On  the  long  summer  days  "The  Luck"  was  usually  carried  to  the 
gulch,  from  whence  the  golden  store  of  Roaring  Camp  was  taken. 
There,  on  a  blanket  spread  over  pine-boughs,  he  would  lie  while  the 
men  were  working  in  the  ditches  below.  Latterly,  there  was  a  rude 
attempt  to  decorate  this  bower  with  flowers  and  sweet-smelling  shrubs, 
and  generally  some  one  would  bring  him  a  cluster  of  wild  honeysuckles, 
azaleas,  or  the  painted  blossoms  of  Las  Mariposas.  The  men  had 
suddenly  awakened  to  the  fact  that  there  was  beauty  and  significance 
in  these  trifles,  which  they  had  so  long  trodden  carelessly  beneath 
their  feet. 

Such  was  the  golden  summer  of  Roaring  Camp.  They  were 
"flush  times,"  and  the  Luck  was  with  them.  The  claims  had  yielded 
enormously.  With  the  prosperity  of  the  camp  came  the  desire  for 
further  improvement.  It  was  proposed  to  build  a  hotel  in  the  follow- 
ing spring,  and  to  invite  one  or  two  decent  families  to  reside  there 
for  the  sake  of  "The  Luck,"  who  might  perhaps  profit  by  female 
companionship.  The  sacrifice  that  this  concession  to  the  sex  cost 
these  men,  who  were  fiercely  sceptical  in  regard  to  its  general  virtue 
and  usefulness,  can  only  be  accounted  for  by  their  affection  for  Tommy. 

The  winter  of  1881  will  long  be  remembered  in  the  foot-hills.  The 
snow  lay  deep  on  the  Sierras,  and  every  mountain  creek  became  a 
river,  and  every  river  a  lake.  Red  Dog  had  been  twice  under  water, 
and  Roaring  Camp  had  been  forewarned. 

"Water  put  the  gold  into  them  gulches,"  said  Stumpy.  "It's 
been  here  once  and  will  be  here  again."  And  that  night  the  North 
Fork  suddenly  leaped  over  its  banks  and  swept  over  the  triangular 
valley  of  Roaring  Camp. 

When  the  morning  broke  the  cabin  of  Stumpy,  nearest  the  river 
bank,  was  gone.  Higher  up  the  gulch  they  found  the  body  of  its 
unlucky  owner;  but  the  pride,  the  hope,  the  joy,  the  Luck  of  Roaring 
Camp  had  disappeared.  They  were  returning  with  sad  hearts  when 
a  shout  from  the  bank  recalled  them. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO    33.  227 

It  was  a  relief  boat  from  down  the  river.  They  had  picked  up, 
they  said,  a  man  and  an  infant.  It  needed  but  a  glance  to  show  them 
Kentuck  lying  there,  cruelly  crushed  and  bruised,  but  still  holding 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  in  his  arms.  As  they  bent  over  the  strangely 
assorted  pair  they  saw  that  the  child  was  cold  and  pulseless.  "He 
is  dead,"  said  one.  Kentuck  opened  his  eyes.  "Dead?"  he  re- 
peated feebly.  "Yes,  my  man,  and  you  are  dying,  too."  A  smile 
lit  the  eyes  of  the  expiring  Kentuck.     "Dying,"  he  repeated,  "He's 

a-taking  me  with  him tell  the  boys  I've  got  the  Luck  with  me 

now;"  and  the  strong  man,  clinging  to  the  frail  babe  as  a  drowning 
man  is  said  to  cling  to  a  straw,  drifted  away  into  the  shadowy  river 
that  flows  forever  to  the  unknown  sea. 


WAKIN'   THE   YOUNG   UNS. 


BEE-ULL!     Bee-ull!     O  Bee-ull!   my  gracious, 
Air  you  still  sleepin'  ? 
Th'  hour  hand's  creepin' 
Near  ter  five. 
(vVal,  blamed  ef  this  'ere  aint  vexatious!) 
Don't  ye  hyar  them  cattle  callin'? 
And  the  old  red  steer  a-bawlin'  ? 
Come,  look  alive! 
Git  up!     Git  up! 

Mar'ann!  Mar' arm !  (Jist  hyar  her  snorin'!) 
Mar'ann!  it's  behoovin' 
Thct  you  be  a-movin'! 
Brisk  I  say! 
Hyar  the  kitchen  stove  a-roarin'? 
The  kit  tie's  a-spilin' 
Ter  git  hisself  bilin'. 
It's  comin'  day. 
Git  up!     Git  up! 


2  28  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Jule!     O  Jule!     Now  what  is  ailin'? 
You  want  ter  rest  ? 
Wal,  I'll  be  blest! 

S'pose  them  cows 
'LI  give  down  milk  'ithout  you  pailin'? 
You  mus'  be  goin'  crazy, 
Er,  more  like  gittin'  lazy. 
Come,  now,  rouse. 
Git  up!     Git  up! 

Jake,  you  lazy  varmint !     Jake!     Hey,  Jake! 
Whut  you  layin'  theer  fur? 
You  know  the  stock's  ter  keer  fur  ? 
So,  hop  out ! 
(That  boy  is  wusser'n  a  rock  to  wake!) 
Don't  stop  to  shiver, 
But  jist  unkiver, 
An'  pop  out! 

Git  up!     Git  up! 

Young  uns!     Bee-ull!    Jake!     Mar'ann!    Jule! 
(Wal,  consarn  my  skin! 
They've  gone  ter  sleep  agin, 
Fur  all  my  tellin".) 
See  hyar,  I  haint  no  time  ter  fool! 
It's  the  las'  warnin' 
I'll  give  this  morin'. 
I'm  done  yellin'! 
Git  up!    Git  up! 

SOLUS. 

Wal,  whut's  the  odds — an  hour,  more  or  less  ? 
B'lieve  it  makes  'em  stronger 
Ter  sleep  er  little  longer 
Thar  in  bed. 


AND    RECITATIONS  NO.  33.  229 

The  time  is  comin'  fas'  enough,  I  guess, 
When  I'll  wish  an'  wish  'ith  weepin', 
They  was  back  up  yender  sleepin', 
Overhead, 
Ter  git  up. 

Points:  Impersonate  face,  voice,  and  mannerisms  of  an  old  man 
calling  to  children  sleeping  above.  The  selection  given  in  connection 
with  "You  Git  Up,"  by  Joe  Kerr,  in  "Werner's  Readings  and  Recita- 
tions No.  3,"  (35c.)  makes  an  effective  number.  In  using  both  give 
"Wakin'  the  Young  Uns"  first,  prefacing  the  poem  with  the  follow- 
ing: "This  selection  is  a  little (drama  in  two  acts.  Act  I.  represents 
an  old  gentleman  about  5  a.m.  trying  to  wake  the  children  who  are 
sleeping  up-stairs.  Act  II.  represents  one  of  the  small  boys,  who, 
between  acts,  had  to  be  aroused  from  sleep  in  an  unpleasant  way  by 
the  old  gentleman.  Act  I.  'The  Old  Man  Wakin'  the  Young  Uns.'" 
(Give  it.)  Act  II.  "The  Small  Boy's  Soliloquy."  (Give  "You  Git 
Up.")  When  both  selections  are  used  the  part  after  "Solus"  in  the 
first  should  be  omitted. 


WHEN   THE   OLD   MAN   SMOKES. 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR. 


IN  the  forenoon's  restful  quiet, 
When  the  boys  are  off  at  school, 
When  the  window  lights  are  shaded 

And  the  chimney-corner  cool, 
Then  the  old  man  seeks  his  armchair, 
Lights  his  pipe  and  settles  back; 
Falls  a-dreaming  as  he  draws  it 

Till  the  smoke-wreaths  gather  black. 

And  the  tear-drops  come  a-trickling 
Down  his  cheeks,  a  silver  flow — 

Smoke  or  memories  you  wonder, 
But  you  never  ask  him, — no; 


230  WERNER'S   READINGS 

For  there's  something  almost  sacred 

To  the  other  family  folks 
In  those  moods  of  silent  dreaming 

When  the  old  man  smokes. 

Ah,  perhaps  he  sits  there  dreaming 

Of  the  love  of  other  days, 
And  of  how  he  used  to  lead  her 

Through  the  merry  dance's  maze; 
How  he  called  her  "little  princess," 

And,  to  please  her,  used  to  twine 
Tender  wreaths  to  crown  her  tresses, 

From  the  "matrimony  vine." 

Then  before  his  mental  vision 

Comes,  perhaps,  a  sadder  day, 
"When  they  left  his  little  princess 

Sleeping  with  her  fellow  clay. 
How  his  young  heart  throbbed,  and  pained  him! 

Why,  the  memory  of  it  chokes! 
Is  it  of  these  things  he's  thinking 

When  the  old  man  smokes  ? 

But  some  brighter  thoughts  possess  him, 

For  the  tears  are  dried  the  while. 
And  the  old,  worn  face  is  wrinkled 

In  a  reminiscent  smile. 
From  the  middle  of  the  forehead 

To  the  feebly  trembling  lip, 
At  some  ancient  prank  remembered 

Or  some  long  unheard-of  quip. 

Then  the  lips  relax  their  tension 

And  the  pipe  begins  to  slide-, 
Till  in  little  clouds  of  ashes, 

It  falls  softly  at  his  side; 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.  33.  231 

And  his  head  bends  low  and  lower 

Till  his  chin  lies  on  his  breast, 
And  he  sits  in  peaceful  slumber 

Like  a  little  child  at  rest. 

Dear  old  man,  there's  something  sad'ning, 

In  these  dreamy  moods  of  yours, 
Since  the  present  proves  so  fleeting, 

All  the  past  for  you  endures. 
Weeping  at  forgotten  sorrows, 

Smiling  at  forgotten  jokes; 
Life  epitomized  in  minutes, 

When  the  old  man  smokes. 


GOOD   BYE. 


WE  say  it  for  an  hour  or  for  years, 
We  say  it  smiling,  say  it  choked  with  tears; 
We  say  it  coldly,  say  it  with  a  kiss, 
And  yet  we  have  no  other  word  than  this: 

Good  Bye. 

We  have  no  dearer  word  for  our  heart's  friend, 
For  him  who  journeys  to  the  world's  far  end 
And  scars  our  soul  with  going;  thus  we  say 
As  unto  him  who  steps  but  o'er  the  way : 

Good  Bye. 

Alike  to  those  we  love  and  those  we  hate, 
We  say  no  more  in  parting  at  Life's  gate, 
To  him  who  passes  out  beyond  earth's  sight, 
We  cry  as  to  the  wanderer  for  a  night: 
Good  Bve. 


2$2  WERNER'S   READINGS 

THE   OLD    VIOLINIST'S   CHRISTMAS. 


HE  was  old  and  feeble  and  poor — just  one  of  those  examples  of 
a  man  who  has  lived  too  long.  Slowly  he  wended  his  way 
down  the  crowded  street  until  he  reached  that  sign  which  marks  the 
border  line  of  hope  and  despair  for  so  many  human  hearts — the  three 
balls.  Poverty  shone  from  his  threadbare  coat  and  worn  shoes,  it 
trembled  in  his  old  hand,  it  quivered  in  his  thin  lips  and  looked  from 
his  great,  thoughtful,  hungn  eyes. 

Proud  blood  flushed  the  pallid  features  .of  the  old  man  as  he  ap- 
proached the  broker'.  More  years  than  man  lias  yet  lived  seemed 
weighing  upon  the  bowed  head,  and  not  only  the  deep-set,  hungry 
eyes,  but  every  feature  of  that  patrician  old  face  expressed  the  hu- 
mility of  despair.  He  was  facing  the  hardest  trial  that  comes  to  the 
children  of  men — the  self-confession  of  failure. 

There,  on  the  pawnbroker's  ledger,  which,  like  the  roll  of  the 
recording  angel,  marks  the  downfall  of  many  a  soul  and  suffering 
enough  to  redeem  it,  was  writ  the  name  of  this  old  man,  and  over  on 
the  shelf  in  a  rough  case  lay  his  Amati — the  child  of  his  old  heart,  the 
mistress  of  his  soul.  Yes,  he  had  failed,  and  in  the  ever  active,  exact- 
ing drama  of  the  world  there  was  no  part  for  him  to  play. 

"I  haven't  any  money,"  admitted  the  old  man.  "But  it's  Christ- 
mas Eve,  and  if  you  will  allow  me  to  sit  here  and  lend  me  my  old  violin 
I  will  play  you  a  Christmas  carol — a  rhapsody. " 

There  was  a  pleading  in  the  old  voice  that  would  have  opened  a 
harder  heart  than  the  keeper  of  the  shop  beneath  the  three  golden  balls. 

The  night  had  grown  old,  and  it  lacked  less  than  an  hour  of  the 
day  which  was  to  bring  peace  to  the  world.  The  old  musician  shivered ; 
it  was  the  cold  of  the  world  without  and  the  chill  of  a  heart  within  that 
quivered  from  his  very  soul. 

The  touch  of  a  loved  one  brings  to  life  again  all  the  glory  of  our 
dead  selves.  Youth  to  old  age — strength  to  weakness — light  to  dull, 
aching  eyes — courage,  ambition,  love,  laughter — all  it  awakens.' 
Gently  the  sacred  prize  was  lifted — reverently  its  keys  and  strings 
were  touched,  as  the  old  violinist  drew  the  bow  that  was  so  perfectly 


AND    RECITATIONS  NO.   33.  ?33 

wedded  to  his  master-hand.  The  look  in  the  deep-set  eyes  was  less 
hungry  now  and  the  hand  was  steady  again.  The  hoary  old  head  was 
no  longer  bowed  in  grief  and  shame,  but  drooped  to  touch  the  bosom 
of  his  love. 

Out  on  the  night  air  floated  the  joyous  notes  of  the  "Hosanna, 
hosanna  to  the  Highest. "  Loudly  they  rang — and  then  the  echo,  soft 
and  silvery,  quivered  a  moment.  It  was  the  pulse  of  the  soul  throb- 
bing in  one  magnificent  blending  of  harmony.  All  the  hunger  and 
want  and  mortifying  failure  were  forgotten,  and  the  soul,  young  and 
strong  in  its  glory,  soared  out  in  the  tones  of  the  Christmas  anthem. 

Then  for  a  moment  came  the  shadow  of  the  present.  The  face 
became  white  again  and  the  old  hungry  light  shone  from  the  eyes; 
anew.  Ah,  how  could  he  ever  have  parted  with  his  companion  of 
his  soul-tried  hours?  Food  purchased  at  this  price  would  choke  him 
now,  but  hunger  is  a  persistent  foe.  It  will  wring  from  the  heart 
almost  any  loved  object. 

You  who  know  luxury  or  comfort,  who  have  never  felt  poverty's 
heaviest  curse — real,  desperate,  departing,  aching  hunger — may  not 
see  this  truth,  but  there  is  nothing  under  God's  heaven  that  twists  the 
heart  into  distorted  shapes,  destroys  ideals  and  compels  us  to  sur- 
render that  which  our  hearts  would  bleed  for  under  any  other  conditions 
like  hunger.  Its  fire  strikes  into  the  heart  and  brain,  and  breaks  a 
spirit  which  could  face  any  other  ideal,  and  so  the  \iolin  had  lain  silent 
for  many  days.. 

Again  the  bow  was  drawn,  though  age  had  crept  up  to  pals}'  the 
feeble  limbs.  Softly  the  "Miserere"  moaned  from  the  violin.  "Ah, 
I  have  sighed  to  rest  me,  deep  in  a  silent  grave,"  gently  trembled  the 
melody,  while  in  a  minor  key  the  obligato  sent  forth  its  wail.  Wonder- 
fully sad  flowed  the  music  from  the  old  violin. 

Then,  as  the  cathedral  chimes  rang  out  the  tidings  that  a  Christ- 
mas day  was  born,  the  "Gloria  in  Excelsis  Deo"  rushed  forth  in  one 
magnificent  soulburst  from  the  strings  of  the  violin.  The  old  hand 
was  firm  and  supple  now;  inspiration  shone  from  the  aged  face. 
"Glory  to  God  on  high" — the  tones  seemed  to  soar  beyond  the  sad, 
old  world — upward,  upward  until  it  seemed  to  touch  the  star-studded 
dome  and  beyond  to  the  throne  most  high. 


234  WERNER'S   READINGS 

"Peace  on  earth" — the  benediction  seemed  to  strike  into  every 
soul.  The  battle  for  earthly  gain — the  selfish  passions,  the  heart- 
aches and  sins — all,  all  were  forgotten — peace,  peace  on  earth.  Fainter 
and  fainter  trembled  the  last  glad  notes. 

The  snowy  old  head  rested  against  the  loved  Amati.  The  face 
was  as  white  as  the  Christmas  snow  without — but  the  lips  smiled. 
Peace  on  earth — peace,  peace  to  the  soul  that  slumbers. 


THE    BATTLE. 

FREDERICK   SCHILLER. 


Translated  from  the  German  by  E.  Bulwer-Lytton. 


HEAVY  and  solemn, 
A  cloudy  column, 
Through  the  great  plain  they  marching  came! 
Measureless  spread,  like  a  table  dread, 
For  the  wild  grim  dice  of  the  iron  game. 
Looks  are  bent  on  the  shaking  ground, 
Hearts  beat  loud  with  a  knelling  sound. 
Swift  by  the  breasts  that  must  bear  the  brunt 
Gallops  the  major  along  the  front, 

"Halt!" 
And  fettered  they  stand  at  the  stark  command, 
And  the  warriors,  silent,  halt! 

Proud  in  the  blush  of  morning  glowing, 
What  on  the  hill-top  shines  in  flowing? 
"  See  you  the  foeman's  banners  waving?" 
"  We  see  the  foeman's  banners  waving. " 
"  God  be  with  you,  children  and  wife!" 
Hark  to  the  music, — the  trump  and  the  fife; 


AND    RECUSATIONS  NO.   33-  235 

How  they  ring  through  the  ranks  which  they  rouse  to  the  strife! 
Thrilling  they  sound,  with  their  glorious  tone; 
Thrilling  they  go  through  the  marrow  and  bone. 
Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 
In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more! 

See  the  smoke  how  the  lightning  is  cleaving  asunder! 

Hark!  the  guns,  peal  on  peal,  how  they  boom  in  their  thunder! 

From  host  to  host  with  kindling  sound, 

The  shouted  signal  circles  round ; 

Ay,  shout  it  forth  to  life  or  death — 

Freer  already  breathes  the  breath! 

The  war  is  waging,  slaughter  raging, 

And  heavy  through  the  reeking  pall 

The  iron  death-dice  fall! 
Nearer  they  close — foes  upon  foes. 
"  Ready!''  from  square  to  square  it  goes. 

They  kneel  as  one  man,  from  flank  to  flank, 

And  the  fire  comes  sharp  from  the  foremost  rank. 

Many  a  soldier  to  earth  is  sent, 

Many  a  gap  by  the  balls  is  rent; 

O'er  the  corpse  before  springs  the  hinder  man, 

That  the  line  may  not  fail  to  the  fearless  van. 

To  the  right,  to  the  left,  and  around  and  around, 

Death  whirls  in  its  dance  on  the  bloody  ground, 

God's  sunlight  is  quenched  in  the  fiery  fight; 

Over  the  host  falls  a  brooding  night! 

Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 

In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more! 

The  dead  men  lie  bathed  in  the  weltering  blood, 

And  the  living  arc  blent  in  the  slippery  flood, 

And  the  feet,  as  they  reeling  and  sliding  go, 

Stumbles  still  on  the  corpses  that  sleep  below. 

"  What — Francis!     Give  Charlotte  my  last  farewell." 

As  the  dying  man  murmurs,  the  thunders  swell — 


236  WERNER'S   READINGS 

"I'll  give — O.God!  are  the  guns  so  near? 

Ho,  comrades!  yon  volley!  look  sharp  to  the  rear! — 

I'll  give  thy  Charlotte  thy  last  farewell. 

Sleep  soft!  where  death  thickest  descendeth  in  rain 

The  friend  thou  forsakest  thy  side  may  regain!" 

Hitherward,  thitherward  reels  the  fight; 

Dark  and  more  darkly  day  glooms  into  night, 

Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 

In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more! 

Hark  to  the  hoofs  that  galloping  go! 

The  adjutants  flying — 
The  horsemen  press  hard  on  the  panting  foe; 
Their  thunder  booms,  in  dying. 
Victory! 
Terror  has  seized  on  the  dastards  all,  dr 

And  their  colors  fall! 

Victory ! 

Closed  is  the  brunt  of  the  glorious  fight, 

And  the  day,  like  a  conqueror,  bursts  on  the  night; 

Trumpet  and  fife  swelling  choral  along, 

The  triumph  already  sweeps  marching  in  song. 

Farewell,  fallen  brothers;  though  this  life  be  o'er, 

There's  another,  in  which  we  shall  meet  you  once  more! 


PEANUTTI'S   VOYAGE   TO    EUROPE. 

JOE  KERR, 


DA  monka  not  feel  ver  well  in  Newa  Yorka  deesa  spring — mea, 
too.     Too   much   da   grip.     It   maka   monka   sick — mea,   too. 
Dat  why  we  leava  da  place. 

My  friend,  Macaroni  Spaghetti,  say: 

"Peanutti,  you  go  to  Europa?" 

I  say:  "You  betta,  you  balda  head. "  ~,_       \«s  $ 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   33.  237 

Him  ask:  "You  gotta  da  stuff — cla  mon'  ?" 

I  tella  him  da  monka  save  alia  da  time  lika  da  stinga  man  who 
nev'  puts  da  advertise  in  da  newspap'.  Den  him  springa  one  joke: 
him  say: 

"Well,  me  hope  you  not  come  to  cla  end  of  your  rope  before  you 
come  to  da  end  of  Europe. " 

Dat  maka  the  monka  sick — mea,  too;  but  we  taka  da  trip  alia 
da  same.  We  goa  da  firsta  class,  too.  Da  monka  isa  noa  jay — 
Peanutti  noa  jay,  too.  When  we  go  toa  Amerique  from  Italia  in  de 
firsta  place  we  sleep  in  da  steer'ge.  Getta  sicka  ina  da  steer'ge,  but 
deesa  time  we  maka  da  mind  upa  to  go  ina  da  righta  shape,  lika  da 
butcher,  da  baker,  ana  da  wholla  crowd  who  land  ina  da  Yankeeland 
with  no  shoes  ona  da  feet  and  no  clothes  ona  da  back,  but  who  go  back 
home  in  a  da  few  years  and  slap  ona  da  lugs  lika  da  rich  a  lord. 

We  look  around.  We  see  alia  da  shipa.  Soma  de  shipa  ver' 
slick — soma  de  ship  no  good.  Da  monka  wanta  go  bya  da  French  a 
boat  joost  because  he  falla  in  love  witha  da  Frencha  girl  froma  da 
Jers'  Sit',  but  him  hata  da  froga  legs,  so  when  I  tella  him  Frencha 
skiff  stuffa  us  ona  frogs  alia  da  way,  dat  settle  da  biz,  and  I  go  down 
and  see  Mist'  Cunard.  Mist'  Cunard  sella  me  twins — two  berths — 
one  fora  da  monka,  'noder  fora  me.  Den  me  backa  da  grippa  and 
giva  da  New  Yorka  nosagripa  da  shake. 

Big  lot  ofa  da  boys  come  down  toa  da  shipa  to  seea  da  monka  off 
— mea,  too.  Dey  got  what  a  da  come  for.  Dey  sawa  da  monk  off — 
clear  offa  him  base — mea,  too.  Geea  whiz!  We  hava  da  great  racket, 
and  whena  da  boata  sail  past  da  Barthold's  Lib,  we  seea  da  fifty-six 
Libs  all  ata  da  samma  time.  But  dat  maka  no  diff  toa  da  ship — she 
hava  no  bigga  load  on  ifa  da  monka  did — mea,  too.  She  skim  along 
lika  da  bow-legga  duck  ina  da  mill-pond,  and  da  peop'  laugh,  and 
da  peop'  smile,  and  da  peop'  hava  granda  bigga  time,  joost  lika  da 
boy  ata  da  Sund'-school  pickanick.  But  da  nexta  day  da  shippa  go  lika 
da  drunka  man.  She  roll,  she  stagger,  she  wabble  all  over  da  sea — 
she  maka  da  monka  sick  and  mea,  too. 

Poora  monka.  Him  face  turn  toa  da  chalk-green-yellow  color 
lika  da  nota  ripe  banan';  him  keep  ver'  still;  him  hava  him  heart  ina 
him  mouf,  buta  da  monka  him  ver'  brave, — mea,  too,  jusa  lika  da 


238  WERNER'S  READIXGS 

oder  peop'  who  "nev  missa  da  one  meal,"  but  who  teela  alia  da  time 
lika  da  whale  felt  joost  before  him  elevate  Jonah. 

Mist'  Cunard  him  ver'  smarta;  him  very  shrewd.  Him  hava  da 
dining-room  up  ina  da  front  end  ofa  da  boat  where  she  pitch  and  a-toss 
joost  'nough  to  knocka  da  appetite  clean  outa  da  monka, — mca,  too. 
Him  way  ahead  ofa  da  New  Yorka  board'-house  keppers  ona  da  grub- 
saving  question. 

Da  bedda-room  on  de  shippa  have  two  shelves  to  sleep  on — one 
fora  da  monka,  'noder  fora  me.  Da  monka  sleep  ona  da  toppa  shelf, 
ana  da  first  nighta  him  hava  da  night-horse.  Him  dream  him  home 
in  him  own  bed.  Aft'  while  him  want  a  drink  of  da  wat',  so  him  raise 
up  and  him  walk  offa  da  shelf.  Wow!  Biff!  him  drop  lika  da  dull 
sick  thud.  Him  breaka  him  heart,  and  breaka  da  record  alia  da  same 
time. 

Ina  da  smoke-room  wc  have  da  great  lot  of  fun.  Da  Gov'  ofa  da 
North  and  da  Gov'  ofa  da  South  Carolin'  was  there.  Mist'  Jag,  ofa 
da  New  Yorka,  was  there,  a  duka,  a  lord,  anda  da  monka,  mea,  tco, 
anda  da  greata  many  more — Scotchman,  Dutchamen,  Johna  Bulls 
Johnnies,  chappies  of  alia  kinds  from  alia  da  countries.  Dey  playa 
poke',  playa  whist,  dey  drinka,  smoka,  singa,  dey  tells  da  funny  stor'. 
Dey  betta  how  mucha  da  ship  a-goin'  to  runa  eacha  day.  Da  monka 
ana  da  duka  form  one  syndicate  and  go  into  de  pool,  dey  almost  get 
swamped,  buta  da  monka  isa  no  "Jonah" — him  one  mascot — him 
bringa  lucka  toa  da  duka  and  dey  wina  da  big  wad  of  mon' — Englisha 
mon'. 

When  I  paid  Mist'  Cunard  fora  da  tickets  da  monka  t'ink  da  cover 
da  passage.  Notta  mucha.  We  had  toa  fee  and  tip  ev'  man  ona. 
da  boat  froma  da  cook  toa  da  smoke-stack.  Dot  maka  da  monka 
sick — mea,  too. 

We  steama  along  da  greata  long  time.  We  see  noa  land,  noa  ships, 
noa  whales,  noa  ice-bergs  alia  da  way.  But  one  morning  da  monka 
look  outa  da  portahole  and  it  maka  him  grin  alia  over.  I  say,  "Jocko- 
letta,  whatta  da  mat'  ?"  Him  points  him  tail  outa  da  wind'.  I  looka. 
Granda  sight.  It  maka  my  heart  and  my  stom'  glad.  Smootha  wat', 
silver  sunshine,  greena  and  Ireland  neara  da  Queensatown.  Da 
monka  jumpa  for  joy — mea,  too, 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.   33.  239 

Well,  one  Irish  boata  hitch  onta  da  shippa,  take  offa  da  mails, 
leava  cla  females.  Den  we  sail  over  da  Irish  sea.  Blue,  blue,  beau- 
tiful. Nexta  night  we  reacha  da  Liverpool,  nexla  door  toa  da  Kidne} 
pool.  Docks,  docks  all  aroun'  and  noise  lika  da  thund' -storm. 
Da  monka  pila  out — mea,  too.  We  setta  da  foot  ona  da  terra  firma 
onca  more;  thanka  da  Lord.  Buta  da  land  swing  and  sway,  rocka 
and  rolla  alia  da  day,  joost  lika  da  boat.  It  maka  da  monka  sick  and 
mea,  too.  Den  we  maka  da  breaka  to  leava  da  place,  buta  da  Liver- 
pool officers  what  look  lika  da  'Mericano  street-car  conduct'  say 
"Era,  whata  you  got  in  dat  grippa  sack?"  I  opened  da  grippa  and 
showa  my  extra  shirt  and  two  pair  socks  and  da  one  book  by  Rudyard 
Strippling.     Da  book  catcha  da  eye  ofa  da  custom  man,  and  him  say: 

"Is  Strippling  an  Americano  author?" 

la  say,  "No;    the  Americano  peop'  never  heara  about  him." 

"Well,  you  canna  pass,"  de  manna  say,  "Strippling  is  noa  Eng- 
lishman. " 

So  we  skippa  out  fora  da  Hotel  Adelph'. 

Liverpool  is  a  da  one  brunetta.  She  ver'  dark,  ver'  blacka  from 
da  coal  smoke  and  olda  age.  Da  peop'  seema  to  be  da  children  ofa 
da  Ham,  Sham,  and  Japeth  alia  da  mixed  together.  Every  face  ina 
da  street  woulda  stopa  de  besta  Waterbury  ina  da  world.  Da  streeta- 
cars  are  queer  and  slow  and  bad,  buta  da  car-track  isa  smooth  and 
good,  and  it  beata  da  'Mericano  track  alia  to  smash.  Dev  beata  us 
on  pavements  and  streeta  signs.  Liverpool  is  lika  Chicag'-  ina  da  dirt 
and  size,  but  nota  ina  de  wind  and  getta — there  eli  push. 


A    SORCERESS. 


MY  mother  bade  me  not  to  pass 
Too  near  her  shining  looking-glass. 
I  thought  it  strange  such  things  to  say 
To  just  a  little  girl  at  play: — 
And  so  one  hour  of  mortal  sin 
I  crept  quite  close  and  long  looked  in. 
And,  oh  I  saw  within,  I  guess, 
Something  men  call — a  so:ceress. 


240  WERNER'S  READINGS 

ABSENCE   MAKES   THE   HEART   GROW   FONDER. 

IT  was  in  the  early  summer,  when  my  love  and  I  last  parted, 
She  the  seaside  sought,  and  left  me  in  the  city,  broken-hearted; 
I  to  swelter  through  the  summer,  she  on  sea-kissed  shores  to  wander. 
But  her  last  words  gave  me  comfort, — "Absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder. " 

How  I  loved  the  little  letters  that  from  time  to  time  she  sent  me. 
As  I  read,  it  seemed  that  they  a  momentary  sea-breeze  lent  me. 
When  she  wrote  of  picnics,  bathing,  yachting  trips,  she  bade  me  ponder 
Well  the  truth  of  that  old  saying:    "Absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder." 

Oft  she  spoke  of  her  admirers — how  she  made  them  dance  attendance. 
Made  them  carry  books  and  baskets  and  forswear  their  independence; 
Spoke  of  one  she  nicknamed  "  Croesus, "  who  on  her  his  wealth  would 

squander. 
But  she  added:    "Dear  old  goosie,   absence  makes  the  heart  grow 

fonder. " 

So  I  worked  away  quite  happy,  through  the  broiling  summer  weather. 
Longing  for  the  coming  autumn  when  we'd  walk  the  world  together. 
Though  her  letters  were  less  frequent,  still  I  very  often  conned  her 
Last  one  where    the  postscript   told   me:    "Absence  makes  the  heart 
grow  fonder. " 

Fewer  still  were  now  her  letters,  and  she  wrote:   "I'm  very  busy." 
I  expostulated  wildly  with  my  wayward,  witching  Lizzie. 
Once  more  came  the  same  old  answer,  any  other  seemed  beyond  her, — 
"Don't  you  know,  you  stupid  Willie,  absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder. " 

One  more  letter  yet  she  sent  me,  while  she  at  the  seaside  tarried. 
Laughing  at  our  wild  flirtation,  telling  me  that  she  was  married. 
And  'twas  thus  her  note  concluded — as  I  read,  my  face  turned  yellow — 
"Absence  makes  the  heart  rrow  fonder — fonder  of  the  other  fellow." 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.   33.  24 1 


THE   MYSTERIOUS  PORTRAIT:    A    STORY  OF 
JAPAN. 


GEORGE  JAPY. 

IN  the  little  Japanese  village  of  Yowcuski,  a  looking-glass  was  an 
unheard-of  thing,  and  the  girls  did  not  even  know  what  they 
looked  like  except  on  hearing  the  description  their  lovers  gave  of  their 
personal  beauty. 

Now  it  happened  that  a  young  Japanese  one  clay  picked  up  in 
the  street  a  small  pocket  hand-mirror. 

It  was,  of  course,  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  Kiki-Tsum  had  ever 
gazed  on  such  a  thing.  He  looked  at  it,  and  to  his  intense  astonish- 
ment saw  the  image  of  a  brown  face, 'with  dark,  intelligent  eyes,  and 
a  look  of  awe-struck  wonderment  on  its  features. 

"It  is  my  sainted  father.  How  could  his  portrait  have  come  here? 
Is  it,  perhaps,  a  warning  of  some  kind!" 

He  folded  the  precious  treasure  up  in  his  handkerchief,  and  put 
it  in  a  large  pocket  of  his  loose  blouse.  When  he  went  home  that  night 
he  hid  it  away  carefully  in  a  vase,  as  he  did  not  know  of  any  safer 
place.  He  said  nothing  of  the  adventure  to  his  young  wife,  for,  he 
said,  "Women  are  curious,  and  then,  too,  sometimes  they  are  given 
to  talking. " 

For  some  days  Kiki-Tsum  was  in  a  great  state  of  excitement.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  portrait  all  the  time,  and  at  intervals  he  would 
leave  his  work  and  suddenly  appear  at  home  to  take  a  look  at  his  trea- 
sure. 

Now,  in  Japan,  as  in  other  countries,  mysterious  actions  and  ir- 
regular proceedings  of  all  kinds  have  to  be  explained  to  a  wife.  Lili- 
Tsee  did  not  understand  why  her  husband  kept  appearing  at  all  hours 
of  the  day.  Certainly  he  kissed  her  every  lime  he  carr.e  in  like  this. 
At  first  she  was  satisfied  at  his  explanation  when  he  told  her  that  he 
only  ran  in  for  a  minute  to  see  her  pretty  face.  She  thought  it  was 
really  quite  natural  on  his  part,  but  when  day  after  day  he  appeared, 
and  always  wi<h  the  same  solemn  expression,  she  began  to  wonder 
in  her  heart  of  hearts.     And  so  Lili-Tsee  fell   to  watching,  and  she 


242  WERNER'S   READINGS 

noticed  that  he  never  went  away  until  he  had  been  alone  in  the  little 
room  at  the  back  of  the  house.  She  hunted  day  after  day  to  see  if  she 
could  find  some  trace  of  anything  in  that  little  room  which  was  at 
all  unusual,  but  she  found  nothing. 

One  day,  however,  she  happehed  to  come  in  suddenly  and  saw 
her  husband  replacing  the  long  blue  vase.  He  made  some  excuse 
about  its  not  looking  very  steady,  and  appeared  to  be  just  setting  it 
right,  and  Lili-Tsee  pretended  there  was  nothing  out  of  the  common 
in  his  putting  the  vase  straight.  The  moment  he  had  gone,  though, 
she  was  up  on  a  stool  like  lightning,  and  in  a  moment  she  had  fished 
the  looking-glass  out  of  the  vase.  Then  the  terrible  truth  was  clear. 
What  was  it  she  saw  ? 

Why  the  portrait  of  a  woman,  and  she  had  believed  that  Kiki- 
Tsum  was  so  good  and  so  fond  and  so  true. 

Suddenly  a  fit  of  anger  seized  her,  and  she  gazed  at  the  glass  again. 
The  same  face  looked  at  her,  but  she  wondered  how  her  husband 
could  admire  such  a  face,  so  wicked  did  the  dark  eyes  look. 

She  had  no  heart  for  anything,  and  did  not  even  make  any  attempi 
to  prepare  a  meal  for  her  husband.  She  just  went  on,  nursing  the 
portrait,  and  at  the  same  time  her  wrath.  When  later  on  Kiki-Tsum 
arrived,  he  was  surprised  to  find  nothing  ready  for  their  evening  meal, 
and   no  wife.     He  walked  through  to  the  other  rooms. 

"So  this  is  the  love  you  professed  for  me!  This  is  the  way  in  which 
you  treat  me,  before  we  have  even  been  married  a  year!  What  do 
you  mean,  Lili-Tsee? 

"What  do  I  mean?  What  do  you  mean?  The  idea  of  your 
keeping  portraits  in  my  rose-leaf  vase.  Here,  take  it  and  treasure  it, 
for  I  do  not  want  it,  the  wicked,  wicked  woman!" 

"I  cannot  understand." 

"Oh!  you  can't?  I  can,  though,  well  enough.  You  like  that 
hideous  villainous  looking  woman  better  than  your  own  true  wife. 
I  would  say  nothing  if  she  were  at  any  rate  beautiful;  but  she  has  a 
vile  face,  a  hideous  face." 

"Lili-Tsee,  what  do  you  mean?  That  portrait  is  the  living  image 
of  my  poor,  dead  father.  I  found  it  in  the  street  the  other  day  and 
put  it  in  your  vase  for  safety." 


And  recitations  no.  33.  243 

"Hear  him!  He  wants  to  tell  me  I  do  not  know  a  woman's  face 
from  a  man's. " 

Kiki-Tsum  was  wild  with  indignation,  and  the  quarrel  went  On. 
The  loud  angry  words  attracted  the  notice  of  a  Japanese  priest  who 
was  passing. 

"My  children,"  he  said,  putting  his  head  in  at  the  door,  "why 
this  unseemly  anger?     Why  this  dispute?" 

"Father,  my  wife  is  mad." 

"All  women  are  so,  my  son,  more  or  less.  You  were  wrong  to  ex- 
pect perfection.     It  is  no  use  getting  angry;    all  wives  are  trials." 

"My  husband  has  a  portrait  of  a  woman  hidden  in  my  rose-leaf 
vase. " 

"I  swear  that  I  have  no  portrait  but  that  of  my  poor,  dead  father." 

"My  children,  my  children,  show  me  the  portrait." 

The  priest  took  the  glass  and  looked  at  it  earnestly.  He  then 
bowed  low  before  it  and  in  an  altered  tone,  said:  "My  children,  settle 
your  quarrel  and  live  peaceably  together.  You  are  both  in  the  wrong. 
This  portrait  is  of  a  saintly  and  venerable  priest.  I  know  not  how 
you  could  mistake  so  holy  a  face."  He  blessed  the  husband  and 
wife,  and  then  went  away,  carrying  with  him  the  glass  which  had 
wrought  such  mischief  to  place  with  the  precious  relics  of  the  church. 


WHEN    ME   AN'    ED   GOT   RELIGION. 


'      FRED   W.  SHIBLEY. 

'  T  ONG  about  the  time  me  an'  Ed  was  just  gettin'  on  friendly 
I  j  relations  with  our  'teens,  a  young  Methodist  preacher  got 
stationed  on  the  Milton  circuit,  an'  took  a  notion  of  holdin'  protracted 
meetin'  in  the  little  red  schoolhouse.  These  revival  services  was  a 
big  event  in  the  neighborhood  in  them  days.  We  never  had  much 
of  public  amusement  or  excitement,  an'  a  winter  without  a  protracted 
meetin'  was  considered  dull.  The  young  folks  'specially  enjoyed 
such  a  meetin',  'cause  it  was  a  place  to  go  of  a  night,  an'  what  with 
the  queer  things  that  happened  an'  the  funny  experiences  told  by  the 


244  WERNER'S  READINGS 

converted,  it  stood  us  in  place  of  a  theater.  Father  was  a  natural 
leader  at  such  times,  an'  as  we  kept  the  schoolhouse  key,  me  an'  Ed 
would  be  sent  up  early  of  a  night  to  build  the  fire  an'  light  the  lamps 
We  used  to  sock  the  wood  to  that  old  box-stove  till  the  top  got  red 
hot  an'  the  pipe  roared.  Then  we'd  set  around  an'  wait  for  the  folks 
to  come. 

Old  Henry   Simmonds  was  always  the   first  to  arrive. 

"Wall,  boys,"  he'd  say  to  me  an'  Ed,  "I  see  you  got  a  good  fire 
goin'.  But  that  ain't  nothin'  to  the  fire  as'll  roast  poor  sinners  if  they 
don't  obey  the  call  an'  come  for'ard.  Git  religion,  boys,"  he'd  say. 
"Git  religion  early  in  life  an'  be  an  honor  to  your  father  an'  mother." 

Father  never  said  nothin'  to  us  'bout  gettin'  religion,  'cause  he 
thought  us  too  young,  but  me  an'  Ed  'ud  get  mighty  serious  now  an' 
then,  as  we  was  terrible  'fraid  of  dyin'  an'  goin'  to  the  bad  place  an' 
welterin'  in  the  fires  there.  It  was  good  an'  real  to  us  then,  I  tell 
you;  for  beside  what  old  Henry  Simmonds  was  eternally  dingin'  into 
our  ears,  we'd  the  old  family  Bible  at  home,  with  its  scarey  pictures, 
to  keep  us  shiverin'  most  of  the  time. 

There  was  one  picture  in  that  Bible  I'll  never  forget.  It  was  'long 
in  Revelations  an'  was  intended  to  show  how  an  angel  come  to  lock 
up  Satan  every  thousand  years.  Tiere  was  Hell  itself  a  rollin'  an' 
tossin'  in  flames,  the  smoke  curlin'  up  in  great  clouds  'round  about. 
Then  there  was  the  devil,  in  the  shape  of  a  horrible  dragon,  with  claw 
feet  an'  savage,  sharp  teeth,  an'  a  skin  on  him  like  a  rhinoceros, 
crouchin'  back,  while  a  tall  angel  in  bare  feet  an'  long  hair  confronted 
him  with  a  ponderous  iron  key.  Blame  if  it  didn't  just  about  set  our 
teeth  to  chatterin'  every  time  we  looked  at  that  picture! 

But  it  didn't  take  me  an'  Ed  long,  to  forget  all  about  the  devil  an' 
the  bad  place  the  minute  wre  got  m-te-ou-t  the  open  air,  with  the  sun 
shinin'  overhead  an'  with  some  mischief  -of  other  in  our  minds. 

Well,  this  fall,  long  comes  the  }^oung  English  preacher  to  hold 
protracted  meetin',  an'  he  wras  the  most  earnest  young  feller  you 
ever  see.  He  had  the  "penitentiary"  bench  full  of  "convicts"  the 
first  week,  as  old  Dan,  the  French  tailor,  used  to  say. 

Me  an'  Ed  an'  a  few  more  boys  set  back  by  the  stove  an'  made 
no  move,  but  we  could  feel  that  the  spirit  or  somethin'  was  workin' 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  33.  245 

in  us.  We  knew  we  was  awful  sinners,  but  we  hadn't  the  nerve  to 
go  forward.  Will  Tinker  went  forward,  after  a  bit,  and  I  remember 
well  how  I  wished  I  was  him.  I  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  a  blub- 
berin'  away  an'  gettin'  saved  at  one  end  of  the  penitent  bench,  an' 
when  the  prayin'  was  over  an'  the  tellin'  of  experiences  begun  me 
an'  Ed  'ud  whisper  back  an'  forth,  after  sizin'  up  the  faces,  an'  guess 
who'd  got  religion  that  night.  Some  would  come  up  tearful  an'  look- 
as  if  all  their  friends  an'  neighbors  was  dead  an'  buried,  while  other? 
would  be  calm-faced  an'  waitin'  eagerly  to  be  called  on  to  tell  what 
the  Lord  had  done  for  them. 

One  night,  after  me  an'  Ed  had  gone  to  bed,  an'  I  was  just  beginnin' 
to  doze  off,  Ed  scratched  my  leg  with  his  big  toe — a  signal  he  had 
for  openin'   conversation. 

"George,"  says  he  to  me,  "I'm  goin'  for'ard  to-morrow  night." 

"You  dasn't  do  it,"  says  I. 

"Yes,  I  dast,"  says  he.     "I'm  goin'  for'ard  an'  git  religion." 

"You  go  to  sleep,"  says  I.     "You're  a  fool!" 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  for'ard  just  the  same,"  says  he. 

"You  dasn't  go  for'ard  without  me,"  says  I. 

"I  dare,  too,"  says  he.     "I'll  kneel  'longside  of  Will  Tinker." 

I  lay  an'  thought,  an'  was  mighty  uncomfortable.  I  knew  if  Ed 
went  for'ard  an'  left  me  by  the  stove  I'd  be  looked  on  as  an  outcast 
sinner,  an'  Ed  'ud  crow  over  me  like  sixty  if  he  got  religion  an'  I  didn't. 

But  next  night,  when  the  call  to  come  forward  came  from  the 
young  preacher,  Ed  was  pale  as  a  sheet,  and  didn't  stir. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  git  religion?"  says  I,  nudgin'  him,  for  I  see 
he  was  scart. 

"George,"  says  he,  faintly,  "You  go  first;   I'll  foller. " 

That  was  what  I  wanted,  an'  when  the  next  call  come  I  marched 
up,  with  Ed  at  my  heels,  givin'  Tish  Brown  a  wink  out  of  my  left  eye 
as  I  passed  her. 

We  knelt  'side  of  Will  Tinker,  who  was  still  seekin';  an',  diggin' 
our  knuckles  into  our  eyes,  waited  for  religion  to  come. 

"Felt  anything  yet?"  says  I  to  Will,  nudgin'  him. 

"Not  a  blame  thing,"  says  he,  "an'  my  knees  is  'bout  wore 
out!" 


246  WERNER'S   READINGS 

I  could  hear  Ed  mumblin'  away,  an'  so  I  started  in  to  say  my 
prayers,  but  it  didn't  seem  natural,  it  not  bein'  bedtime. 

By  an'  by  'long  come  old  Henry  Simmonds,  who  patted  our  heads 

"Good  boys,"  says  he,  in  his  croaky  voice.  "Save  the  lambs, 
Lord!"  says  he,  an'  as  he  said  it  he  stumbled  over  the  end  of  a  bench. 

Will  Tinker  snickered  right  out,  an'  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands 
to  keep  from  laughin'.  Say!  I  never  wanted  to  laugh  so  bad  in  all 
my  life.  Me  an'  Will  'ud  look  at  one  'nether  sideways,  an'  then  gig- 
gle to  ourselves,  but  Ed  kept  as  serious  as  a  judge. 

We  didn't  git  religion  that  night  or  the  next.  Will  Tinker  give  up 
in  despair,  an'  left  off  goin'  for'ard,  but  me  an'  Ed  hung  it  out. 

Finally,  one  night  in  bed  I  felt  Ed's  big  toe  scrapin'  along  my  calf, 
an'  I  knew  something  was  comin'. 

"George,"  says  he,  "I  b'lieve  I've  got  it!" 

"Got  what?"  says  I. 

"Religion,"  says  he. 

"When  did  you  get  it?"  says  I. 

"Well,  I've  been  figurin',"  says  he,  '  m'  I  guess  I've  got  it." 

I  argued  pro  an'  con,  but  couldn't  sh^ke  him.  I  was  in  a  pickle. 
I  knew  positive  that  I  hadn't  been  moved  a  peg,  but  I  dasn't  let  Ed 
get  ahead  of  me. 

Next  night  while  we  was  buildin'  the  fire,  I  says  to  him: 

"Ed,"  says  I,  "if  you've  got  it,  I've  got  it,  too." 

"Are   you   sure?"    says   he. 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Ed,"  says  I,  "I  ain't  dead  certain." 

"I  guess  you've  got  it,  George,"  says  he,  "for  you've  looked  solemn 
all  day. " 

We  stood  up  that  night  among  the  saved,  an'  father  talked  very 
nice  to  us  an'  mother  cried  a  heap. 

The  next  day  we  started  out  to  live  a  pious  life,  an'  carried  our 
Sunday-school  lesson  in  our  pockets.  We  prayed  for  everybody  we 
knew  an'  felt  quite  lifted  up  for  nigh  a  week,  an'  then  the  crash  came. 

It  was  this  way:  Up  in  the  gables  of  our  barn  was  four  little  star- 
shaped  holes  for  the  pigeons  to  come  in  an'  out,  an'  just  below  them 
holes  a  pair  of  martins  had  built  their  mud  nest,  an'  me  an'  Ed  had 
been  figurin'  for  some  time  how  to  get  up  there  an'  investigate  the 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.   33.  247 

martin  family.  We  could  climb  up  just  so  far  an'  then  have  to  give 
up. 

Well,  this  day  we  started  in  to  make  a  sure  thing  of  them  martins. 
We  took  off  our  boots,  an'  diggin'  our  toes  into  the  clapboards  an' 
hangin'  to  the  joist,  began  to  climb.  Up  we  went,  higher'n  ever,  an' 
I  got  so  I  could  just  reach  the  bottom  of  the  martin's  nest,  when  I 
heard  a  yell  from  Ed  an'  see  him  tumble  backward  to  the  mow  below. 
He  struck  kerflop  in  the  soft  pea  straw,  an'  at  once  began  to  holler. 
I  crawled  back  as  fast  as  I  could,  thinkin'  he'd  hurt  himself.  When 
I  reached  the  mow  I  found  him  sittin'  on  a  beam,  with  one  foot  in 
his  hand,  the  toes  all  twisted  up  an'  him  a-cryin'  to  beat  the  band. 

"Dum  them  thistles'"  he  says,  sobbin'.  "Gosh  dum  them  blame 
thistles!" 

He'd  dropped  fair  into  a  bunch  of  straw  full  of  thistles — dry,  old, 
sharp,  brown  fellers — that  run  in  like  needles,  an'  his  feet  was  full 
of  'em. 

"Do  they  hurt  you,  Ed?"  says  I,  feelin'  bad  for  him. 

He  let  out  a  yell,  an'  I  see  he  was  crazy  mad. 

"Gosh  dum  them  thistles!"  was  all  he  could  say.  "Gosh  dum 
them  gosh  dum  thistles!" 

"Ed,"  says  I,  "I  thought  you  had  religion?" 

"Dum  them  thistles — blame  'em!"  says  he.     "Gosh  dum  'em!" 

"Ed,"  says  I,  "stop  cussin'.     You  got  religion." 

"I   ain't   got   no  religion!     Dum   religion!"   he   howls. 

"You're  a  backslider,"  says  I,  nippin'  a  long,  ugly  thistle  from 
the  calf  of  his  leg. 

"Dum  religion!"  says  he,  sobbin'.  "Dum  the  martins,  too," 
;ays  he,  glancin'  up  at  them.     "Gosh  dum 'em!" 

"Ed,"  says  I,  "you'll  go  to  the  bad  place,  sure." 

"I  don't  give  a  dum!"  says  he. 

"I'll  go  to  Heaven,"  says  I,  "an'  you'll  go  to  the  bad  place." 

"Go  where  you  like,"  says  he.  "There  ain't  no  thistles  in  the 
bad  place,  anyhow,"  says  he,  defiant  as  you  please. 

He  kept  dummin'  away  savage  as  could  be  till  he'd  found  the  last 
thistle.     Then  we  went  to  play  over  by  the  pig-pen. 

That  night  EdlTt>u£toe  told  me  he'd  something  to  say,  an'  I  waited. 


248       WERNER'S  READINGS   AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   33. 

"George,"  says  he,  "I  wish  you'd  give  it  up." 

"Give  up  what?"  says  I. 

"Religion,"  says  he.  "I  ain't  got  it,  an'  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the 
bad  place  alone. " 

In  my  heart  I  was  glad  to  be  let  off  from  prayin'  an'  bein'  solemn, 
but  I  made  the  most  of  it.  / 

"Give  me  the  green  alley  with  the  white  rings,"  says  I,  "an'  I'll 
do  it. " 

"I'll  give  you  four  brown  marbles,"  says  he. 

"The  green  alley,"  says  I,  "or  I  stick." 

"I'll  give  you  five,"  says  he. 

"Nothin'  but  the  green  alley,"  says  I,  for  I  knew  I  had  him. 

He  thought  for  some  time,  an'  finally  wavered. 

"Say  'dum  religion,'  same's  I  did,"  says  he,  "an'  I'll  give  you 
the  green  alley. " 

I  had  to  say  it,  an'  then  we  both  went  to  sleep.  We  was  hardened 
sinners  from  that  time  on,  until  Ed  growed  up  an'  got  to  be  a  preacher 
himself. 

One  day  I  says  to  him,  sittin'  smokin'  in  his  study,  when  he  v.  a 
preparin'  a  sermon;  "Ed,  says  I,  "do  you  remember  that  lime  w: 
went  up  after  martins  and  lost  religion?" 

Ed  grinned.  "You  don't  ever  forget  anything,  George,"  say| 
he.     ' '  What  boys  we  was ! " 


Hallowe'en  Festivities 

(Book  is  known  also  as  "Werner's  Readings  and  Recitations  No.  31.**) 

>/.B. — While  this   book  is  specially  suitable  for  Hallowe'en,  it  contains  rnuefe 
material  good  for  any  time  of  the  year  and  fc  r  any  occasion. 

CONTENTS: 

IRecitattcms 

At  Candle  Lightin*  Time— P.  L.  Dunbar.  Most  Remarkable  Vision. 

Courtin'.— J.  R.  Lowell.  My  Ghost  Story. 

Colored  Dancing  Match.— F.  L.  Stanton.  Omens.— Frank  L.  Stanton. 

Don  Squixet's  Uhost. — Harry  Bolingbroke.        One  Thing  Needful. 

Elf-Child.— J.  W.  Riley.  Popping  Corn. 

Enchanted  Shirt.— John  Hay.  Queen  Mab.— Shakespeare. 

Famour.  Ghosts.  Robin  Goodfellow.— Ben  Jonson. 

Ghost  Stories.— Flavia  Rosser.  Saved  by  a  Ghost. 

Gnoses.— J.  D   Carrothers.  Seein' Things.— Eugene  Field. 

Ghost  ofa  Flower.  Speakin'  Ghost.— S.  S.  Rice. 

Hallowe'en   (essay).— Stanley  Schell.  Sweet  William's  Ghost. 

Hallowe'en.  That  Awful  Ghost. 

Hallowe'en.— Carrie  Stern.  That  Ghost.— Anna  E.  Dickinson. 

Hallowe'en.— L.  F.  W.  Gillette.  Uncle   Dan'l's    Apparition.— Mark    Twato 

Hallowe'en.— M.  Cawein.  and  C.  D.  Warner. 

Hallowe'en  Cheer.  When  de  Folk-  is  Gone.— J.  W.  Riley. 

His  Father  s  Ghost.  Witch's  Cavern.— Bulwer  Lytton. 

Jimmy  Butler  and  the  Owl.  Wood  Hants.— Anna  V.  Culbertson. 

Miss  Russel's  Ghost. 

Entertainments 

Clever  Matchmakers  (play).—  Dance  Program  for  Ghost  Dance.— Directions  for  Serving 
Supper.— Fagot  Ghost  stories.— Fortune  Slips,  Samples  of.— Fortune  Telling.— Fortune 
Telling  with  Dominoes.— Ghost  Dance.— Ghost  Stories.— Ghost  Story  Party— Ghostly 
Pantomimes.— Goblin  Parade.— Hallowe'en  l  ntertainment.— Hallowe'en  Festivities' 
Decorations. — Hallowe'en  German. — Hallowe'en  Invitation  Forms.— Hallowe'en  Pro- 
gram.—Hallowe'en  Supper.— Home  Tests  for  Hallowe'en.— Lucky  Charms.— Macbeth' s 
Fortune  (play )— March  to  Supper  .—Menu  (suggestive).— Order  of  Serving  Refreshments. — 
Partners  for  Supper,  Method  of  Securing. — Reception  and  Introduction  of  Guests. — 
Receipes  for  Hallowe'en.— Refreshments.— Samples  of  Conundrums  for  Hallowe'en. — 
Shadow  Pantomimes  (suggestive). — Spook  March. — Supper. — Witch  Costume. — Witches' 
Dance. — Your  Lucky  Birthday  Jewel. 

IRecipes 

Apples  for  Hallowe'en. — Chestnuts.— Chicken  Salad  Rolls. — Cider  Flip.: — Conundrum 
Nuts. — Fortune  Balls, — Fortune  Cake. —  Fried  Cakes. — Grape  Pudding. — Hallowe'en 
Pie.— Melon  Cream.— Orange  Straws. — Pop  Corn  Balls. — Salted  Nut — Meats. — Syrup 
for  Pop-Corn  Balls. 

Games 

After-Supper    Sports,    Games,    Mysteries.— Alphabet    Game. — Apple    Paring. — Apple 

Pip  Test. — Apple  Seeds. — Apple  Seeds. — Apples  and  Flour. — Around  the  Walnut  Tree. — 

Baby  Show. — Barrel  Hoop. — Blind  Nut  Seekers. — Bowls  (Luggies). — Candle  and  Apple.— 

Cellar  Stairs.— College  Colors. — Combing  Hair  before  Mirror. — Cupid's  Time. — Cyniver. — 

Dough    Test. — Dreamer. — Dry    Bread. — Ducking    for  Apples.— Fagot   Ghost    Stories. — 

Feather    Tests. — Four    Saucers. — Game    of    Fate. — Games    and    Mysteries    for    Early 

Evening. — Guess    Who. — Hallowe'en     Souvenir     Game.— Hiding     Ring,     Thimble    and 

Penny. — Jumping   Lighted   Candle.— Launching  Boats. — Lover's   Test. — Magic   Stairs. — 

Melting    Lead. — Mirror. — Mirror    and    Applp. — Naming     Bedposts. — Necklace. — Needle 

i    Game. — New     Friends. — Peanut    or   Bean    Hunt. — Perplexing    Hunt. — Pulling    Kale. — 

1   Pumpkin    Alphabet.— Raisin    Race. — Ring    and    Goblet. — Secret    Test. — Snapdragon. — 

I   Supper  Games. — Threading  a  Needle. — To   Test  Friends. — Touchstone. — Two  Roses.— 

1   Walnut    Boats.— Water    Experiment.— Where     Dwells    My     Lover.— Winding     Yarn.— 

Winnowing  Corn.— Wood  and  Water.— Yo   r  Lucky  Sticks. 


Price,  40c.  in  paper,  70  c.  in  cloth  binding. 
Address  the   Publishers 

EDGAR    S.   WERNER   &    CO..    NEW   YORK 


A  STRIKING  ENTERTAINMENT  NOVELTY 


4* 


The  Joll  y  Ghost" 


m 


SONG,  PANTOMIME 

AND  DANCE  FOR 

PARLOR,  PLATFORM, 

STAGE 

BRIGHT  AND  UNIQUE 


JOLLY  AND  DAINTY 


Words  and  Pantomime 
by 

EVANGELINE  M.LENT 


Music 
by 

FRANCES  M.  SLATER 


Price,  $1.00 

POSTPAID 


Solos,  Duets  and  Dance  for  1  Ghost  (supposedly  a  man)  and 
1  Girl.  Words  and  Music  and  full  Pantomimic  Directions  given 

ALSO,  TEN  FULL-FIGURE  HALF-TONE  ILLUSTRATIONS 
AND  UNIQUE  COVER  IN  TWO  COLORS 

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ADDRESS  THE  PUBLISHERS 


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